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AGNES S 0 R E L. 


1 ilDDfl 


/ 

y 

- BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ., 

/ 

u 

AUTHOR OF 

“A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES,” “ PEQUINILLO,” “THE FATE,” “AIMS AND OBSTACLES, 
“ HENRY SMEATON,” “ THE WOODMAN,” &c., &c., &c. 




NEW YORK: 

HAPRER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

329 & 331 PEARL STREET, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 





V 


MDCCCLIII. 








Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, by 

/ 

George P. R. James, 


in the Office of tlie Clerk of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. 




w 


I 


TO 


MAUNSELL B. FIELD, ESQ., 


NOT ONLY AS THE COMPANION OF SOME OF MY LITERARY LABORS, BUT 
AS MY DEAR FRIEND ; NOT ONLY AS A GENTLEMAN AND A MAN 
OF HONOR, BUT AS A MAN OF GENIUS AND OF FEELING ; 

NOT ONLY AS ONE WHO DOES HONOR TO HIS OWN 
COUNTRY, BUT AS ONE WHO WOULD DO 
HONOR TO ANY, 

^llis Unnk w SEWtattit, nritji BiitEtE EEgarit, 


BY G. P. R. JAMES. 



A G 


N E S S O R E L. 


CHAPTER I. 


How strange the sensation would be, how mar- 
velously interesting the scene, were we to wake 
up from some quiet night’s rest and find ourselves 
suddenly transported four or five hundred years 
back — living and moving among the men of a 
former age ! 

To pass from the British fortress of Gibraltar, 
with drums and fifes, red coats and bayonets, in 
a few hours, to the coast of Africa, and find one’s 
self surrounded by Moors and male petticoats, 
turbans and cimeters, is the greatest transition the 
world affords at present ; but it is nothing to that 
of which I speak. How marvelously interesting 
would it be, also, not only to find one’s self brought 
in close contact with the customs, manners, and 


characteristics of a former age, with all our mod- 
ern notions strong about us, but to be met at ev- 
ery turn by thoughts, feelings, views, principles, 
springing out of a totally different state ot socie- 
ty, whicn have all passed away, and moldered, 
like the garments in which at that time men 
decorated themselves. 

Such, however, is the leap which I wish the 
reader to take at the present moment ; and — al- 
though I know it to be impossible for him to 
divest himself of all those modern impressions 
which are a part of his identity — to place himself 
with me in the midst of a former period, and to 
see himself surrounded for a brief space with the 
people, and the things, and the thoughts of the 
fifteenth century. 

Let me pi-emise, however, in this prefatory 
chapter, that the object of an author, in the mi- 
nute detail of local scenery and ancient customs, 
which he is sometimes compelled to give, and 
which are often objected to by the animals with 
long e;iis that browse on the borders of Parnas- 
sus, is not so much to show his own learning in 
antiquarian lore, as to imbue his reader with such 
thoughts and feelings as may enable him to com- 
prehend the motives of the persons acting before 
his eyes, and the sensations, passions, and preju- 
dices of ages passed away. Were we to take an 
unsophisticated rustic, and baldly tell him, with- 
out any previous intimation of the habits of the 
time, that the son of a king of England one day 
went out alone — or, at best, with a little boy in 
his company — all covered over with iron; that 
he betook himself to a lone and desolate pass in 
the mountains, traversed by a high road, and sat 
upon horseback by the hour together, with a 
spear in his hand, challenging every body who 
passed to fight him, the unsophisticated rustic 
would naturally conclude that the king’s son wm 
mad, and would expect to hear of him next in 
Bedlam, rather than on the throne of* England. 
But let any one tell him previously of the habits, 
manners, and customs of those days, and the rus- 
tic though he may very well believe that the 


whole age was mad — will understand and appro- 
date the motives of the individual, saying to him- 
self, “ This man was not a bit maddfer than the 
rest.” 

However, this book is not intended to be a 
mere painting of the customs of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, but rather a picture of certain characters 
of that period, dressed somewhat in the garb of 
the times, and moved by those springs of action 
which influenced men in the age to which I refer. 
It has been said, and justly, that human nature is 
the same in all ages; but as a musical instrument 
will produce many different tones, according to 
the hand which touches it, so will human nature 
present many different aspects, according to the 
influences by which it is affected. At aU events, 
I claim a right to play my own tune upon my vio- 
lin, and what skills it if that tune be an air of the 
olden times. No one need listen who does not 
like it. 



CHAPTER II. 


There was a small, square room, of a very 
plain, unostentatious appearance, in the turret of 
a tall house in the city of Paris. The walls were 
of hewn stone, without any decoration whatever, 
except where at the four sides, and nearly in the 
centre of each, appeared a long iron arm, or 
branch, with a socket at the end of it, curved 
and twisted in a somewhat elaborate manner, 
and bearing some traces of having been gilt in a 
former day. The ceiling was much more dec- 
orated than the walls, and was formed by two 
groined arches of stone-work, crossing each other 
in the middle, and thus forming, as it were, four 
pointed arches, the intervals between one mass 
of stone- work and another being filled up with 
dark-colored oak, much after the fashion of a cap 
in a coronet. The spot where the arches crossed 
was ornamented with a richly-carved pendant, 
or corbel, in the centre of which was embedded 
a massive iron hook, probably intended to sustain 
a large lamp, while the iron sockets protruding 
from the walls were destined for flambeaux or 
lanterns. The floor was of stone, and a rude mat 
of rushes was spread over about one eighth of the 
surface, toward the middle of the room, where 
stood a table of no* very large dimensions, cover- 
ed with a great pile of papers and a few manu- 
script books. No lamp hung from the ceiling ; no 
lantern or flambeau cast its light from the walls 
as had undoubtedly been the case in earlier times; 
the tall, quaint-shaped window, besides being en- 
cumbered by a rich tracery of stone-work, could 
not admit even the moonbeams through the thick 
coat of dust that covered its panes, and the only 
light which that room received was afforded by 
a dull oil lamp upon the table, without glass or 
shade. All the mrniture looked dry and with- 


4 AGNES 

ered, as it were, and though solid enough, being 
bulkily formed of dark oak, presented no onia- 
ment whatever. It was, in short, an uncomfort- 
able-looking apartment enough, having a ruinous 
and dilapidated appearance, without any of the 
picturesqueness of decay. Under the table lay 
a large, brindled, rough-haired dog, of the stag- 
hound breed, but cruelly docked of his tail, in 
accordance with some code of forest laws, which 
at that time were very numerous and very vari- 
ous in different parts of France, but all equally 
unjust and severe. Apparently he was sound 
asleep as do^ could be ; but we all know that a 
dog’s sleep is not as profound as a metaphysi- 
cian’s dream, and from time to time he would 
raise his head a little from his crossed paws, and 
look slightly up toward the legs of a person seat- 
ed at the table. 

Now those legs — to begin at the unusual end 
of a portrait — were exceedingly handsome, well- 
shaped legs, indeed, evidently appertaining to a 
young man on the flowery side of maturity. There 
was none of the delicate, I’ather unsymmetrical 
straightness of the mei'e boy about them, nor the 
oVq||^tout, ballustrade-like contour of the sturdy 
m^ of middle age. Nor did the rest of the fig- 
ure belie their promise, for it was in all respects 
a good one, though somewhat lightly formed, 
except the shoulders, indeed, which were broad 
and powerful, and the chest, which was wide 
and expansive. The face was good, though not 
strictly handsome, and the expression was frank 
and bright, yet with a certain air of steady de- 
termination in it which is generally conferred by 
the experience of more numerous years than 
seemed to have passed over that young and un- 
wrinkled brow. 

The dress of the young scribe — for he was 
writing busily — was in itself plain, though not 
without evident traces of care and attention in 
its device' and adjustment. The shoes were ex- 
travagantly long, and drawn out to a very acute 
point, and the gray sort of mantle, with short 
sleeves, which he wore over his ordinary hose 
and jerkin, had, at the collar, and at the end of 
those short sleeves, a little strip of fur — a mark, 
possibly, of gentle birth, for sumptuary laws, al- 
ways ineffectual, were issued from time to time, 
during all the earlier periods of the French mon- 
archy, and generally broken as soon as issued. 

There was no trace of beard upon the chin. 
The upper lip itself was destitute of the manly 
mustache, and the hair, combed back from the 
forehead, and lying in smooth and glossy curls 
upon the back of the neck, gave an appearance 
almost feminine to the head, which was beauti- 
fully set upon the shoulders. \ The broad chest 
already mentioned, however, the long, sinewy 
arms, and the strong brown hand which held the 
pen, forbade all suspicion that the young writer 
was a fair lady in disguise, although that was a 
period in the world’s history when the dames of 
France were not overscrupulous in assuming any 
character which might suit their purposes for the 
time. 

There was a good deal of noise and bustle in 
the streets of Paris, as men with flambeaux in 
their hands walked on before some great lord of 
the court, calling “Place! place!” to clear the 
way for their master as he passed ; or as a mer- 
ry party of citizens returned, laughing and jest- 
ing, from some gay meeting; or as a group of 
night-ramblers walked along, insulting the ear of 
night with cries, and often with blasphemies ; or 


SOREL. 

as lays and songs were trolled up from the cor- 
ners of the streets by knots of persons, probably 
destitute of any other home, assembled round 
the large bonfires, lighted to give warmth to the 
shiv’ering poor — for it was early in the winter of 
the great frost of one thousand four hundred and 
seven, and the miseries of the land were great. 
Still, the predominant sounds were those of joy 
and revelry; for the people of Paris were the 
same in those days that they are even now ; and 
joy, festivity, and frolic, then, as in our own days, 
rolled and caroled along the highways, while 
the dust was yet wet with blood, and wretched- 
ness, destitution, and oppression lurked unseen 
behind the walls. No sounds, however, seemed 
to disturb the lad at his task, or to withdraw his 
thoughts for one moment from the subject before 
him. Now a loud peal of laughter shook the 
casement ; but still he wrote on. Now a cry, as 
if of pain, rang round the room from without , 
but such cries were common in those days, and 
he lifted not his head. And then again a plaint- 
ive song floated on the air, broken only by the 
striking of a clock, jarring discordantly with the 
mellow notes of the air ; but still the pen hurried 
rapidly over the page, till some minutes after the 
hour of nine had struck, when he laid it down 
with a deep respiration, as if some allotted task 
were ended. 

At length the dog which was lying at his feet 
lifted his head suddenly and gazed toward the 
door. The youth was reading over what he had 
written, and caught no sound to withdraw his 
attention ; but the beast was right. There was 
a step — a familiar step — upon the stair-case, and 
the good dog rose up, and walked toward the 
entrance of the room, just as the door was open- 
ed, and another personage entered upon the 
scene. 

He was a grave man, of the middle age, tall, 
well formed, and of a noble and commanding 
presence. He was dressed principally in black 
velvet, with a gown of that stuff, which was lin- 
ed with fur, indeed, though none of that lining 
was shown externally. On his head he had a 
small velvet cap, without any feather, and his 
hair was somewhat sprinkled with gray, though 
in all probability he had not passed the age of 
forty. 

“ Well, Jean,” he said, in a deliberate tone, as 
he entered the room with a firm and quiet tread, 

“ how many have you done, my son ?” 

“All of them, sir,” replied the young man. 

“ I was just reading over this last letter to Signor 
Bernardo Baldi, to see that I had made no mis 
take.” 

“You never mistake, Jean,” said the elder 
man, in a kindly tone ; and then added, thought- 
fully, “All? You must have written hard, and 
diligently.” 

“ You told me to have them ready against you 
returned, sir,” said the youth. 

“ Yes, but I have returned an hour before the 
time,” rejoined his elder companion ; and then, 
as the young man moved away from the chair 
which he occupied, in order to leave it vacant 
for himself, the elder drew near the table, and, 
still standing, glanced his eye over some six or 
seven letters which lay freshly written, and yet 
unfolded. It was evident, however, that though, 
by a process not uncommon, the mind might 
take in. and even investigate, to a certain degree, 
all tha ' the eye rested upon, a large part of the 
thoughts were engaged with other subjects, and 


AGNES SOREL. 


5 


that deeper interests divided the attention of the 
reader. 

" There should be a comma there,” he said, 
pointing with his finger, and at the same time 
seating nimself in the chair. 

The young man took the letter and added the 
comma ; but when he looked up, his companion’s 
eyes were fixed upon the matting on the floor, 
and it was apparent that the letters, and all they 
contained, had passed away from his memory. 

The dog rose from the couchant attitude in 
which he had placed himself, and laid his shaggy 
head upon the elder man’s knee; and, patting 
him quietly, the new-comer said, in a meditative 
tone, “ It is pleasant to have some one we can 
trust. Don’t you think so, Jean ?” 

“It is indeed, sir,” replied the young man; 
“and pleasant to be ti'usted.” 

“ And yet we must sometimes part with those 
we most trust,” continued the other. “ It is sad, 
but sometimes it is necessary.” 

The young man’s countenance fell a little, but 
he made no reply, and the other, looking toward 
the wide fire-place, remarked, “ You have let 
the fire go out, Jean, and these are not days in 
which one can aSbrd to be without warmth.” 

The young man gathered the embers together, 
threw on some logs of wood, and both he and 
his companion mused for several minutes with- 
out speaking a word. At length the youth seem- 
ed to summon sudden courage, and said, abrupt- 
ly, “ I hope you are not thinking of parting with 
me, sir. I have endeavored to the utmost to do 
my duty toward you well, and you have never 
had occasion to find fault; though perhaps your 
kindness may have prevented you from doing so, 
even when there was occasion.” 

“ Not so, not so, my son,” replied the other, 
warmly; “there has been no fault, and conse- 
quently no blame. Nay more, I promised you, 
if you fulfilled all the tasks I set you well, never 
to part with you but for your own advantage. 
The time has come, however, when it is neces- 
sary to part with you, and I must do so for your 
own sake.” 

There was a dead silence for a moment or 
two, and then the elder man laid his finger qui- 
etly on the narrow strip of fur that boi’dered his 
companion’s dress, saying, with a slight smile, 
“ You are of noble blood, Jean, and I ara a mere 
bourgeois.” 

“ I can easily strip that oflf, if it offends you, 
sir,” replied the young man, giving him back his 
smile. “ It is soon done away.” 

“ But not the noble blood, Jean,” answered 
his companion ; “ and this occupation is not fitted 
for you.” 

An air of deep and anxious grief spread over 
the young man’s face, and he answered earnest- 
ly, “ There is nothing derogatory in it, sir. To 
write your letters, to transact any honorable bus- 
iness which you may intrust to me, can not in 
any way degrade me, and you know right well 
tliat it was Irom no base or ignoble motive that 
I undertook the task. My mother’s poverty is 
no stain upon our honorable blood, nor surely 
can her son’s efforts be so to change that poverty 
into competence.” 

His companion smiled upon him kindly, say- 
in*', “ Far from it, Jean ; but still, if there be an 
opportunity of your effecting your object in a 
course more consonant with your birth and sta- 
tion, it is my duty as your friend to seize it for 
70U. Such an opportunity now presents itself, 


and you must take advantage of it. It may turn 
out well ; I trust it will ; but, should the reverse 
be the case — for in these strange, unsettled times, 
those who stand the highest have most to fear a 
fall — if the reverse should be the case, I say, you 
will always find a resource in Jacques Cceur ; his 
house, his purse, his confidence will be always 
open to you. Put on your chaperon, then, and 
come with me: for Fortune, like Time, should 
always be taken by the forelock. The jade is 
sure to kick if we get behind her.” 

The young man took down one of the large 
hoods in which it was still customary, for the 
bourgeoisie especially, to envelop their heads, 
when walking in the streets of Paris. Beneath 
it, however, he placed a small cap, fitting mere- 
ly the crown of tl]fe head, and over the sort of 
tunic he wore »Ke cast a long mantle, for the 
weather was very cold. When fully accoutered, 
he ventured to ask where Maitre Coaur was go- 
ing to take him ; but the good merchant answer- 
ed with a smile, “ Never mind, my son, never 
mind. If we succeed as I expect, you will soon 
know ; if not, there is no need you should. Come 
with me, Jean, and trust to me.” 

“ Right willingly,” replied the young man, 
and followed him. 

The house was a large and handsome house, 
as things went at that time in Paris ; but the 
stair-case was merely one of those narrow, twist- 
ing spirals which we rarely see, except in cathe- 
drals or ruined castles, in the present times. 
Windows to that stair-case there were none, and 
in the daytime the manifold steps received light 
only through a loophole here and there ; for in 
those days it was not at all inconvenient for the 
owner, even of a very modest mansion, to have 
the means of ascending and descending from one 
part of his house to the other, without the dan- 
ger of being struck by the arrows which were 
flying somewhat too frequently in th^treets of 
Paris. At night, a lantern, guarded Wf plates of 
horn from the cold blasts through the loopholes, 
shed a faint and twinkling ray, at intervals of ten 
or twelve yards, upon the steps. But Jacques 
Cceur and his young companion were both well 
acquainted with the way, and were soon at the 
little door which opened into the court-yard. 
Jean Charost looked round for the merchant’s 
mule, as they issued forth; but no mule was there, 
nor any attendant in waiting; and Jacques Cceur, 
drawing his cloak more tightly around him, walk- 
ed straight out of the gates, and along the narrow 
streets, unlighted by any thing but the pale stars 
shining dimly in the wintery sky. 

The merchant walked fast, and Jean Charost 
followed a step behind : not without some cu«- 
osity : not without some of that palpitating anxie- 
ty which, with the young, generally precedes an 
unexpected change of life, yet with a degree, at 
least, of external calmness which nothing but very 
early discipline in the hard school of the world, 
could give. It seemed to him, indeed, that his 
companion intended to traverse the whole city 
of Paris; for, directing his course toward the 
quarter of St. Antoine, he paused not during some 
twenty minutes, except upon one occasion, when, 
just as they were entering one ef the principal 
streets, half a dozen men, carrying torches, came 
rapidly along, followed by two or three on horse- 
back, and several on foot. Jacques Cceur drew 
back into the shadow, and brought his cloak 
closer round him ; but the moment the cavalcade 
had passed he walked on again, saying in a whk 


6 


AGNES SOREL. 


per, “ That is the Marquis de Giac, a favorite of 
the Duke of Burgundy — or, rather, the husband 
of the duke’s favorite. He owes me a thousand 
crowns, and, consequently, loves not to see me 
in his way.” 

Five minutes more brought them to a large 
stone wall, having two towers, almost like those 
of a church, one at either end, and a great gate 
with a wicket near the centre. Monasteries 
were more common than bee-hives in Paris in 
those days, and Jean Charost would have taken 
no notice of the wall, or of a large, dull-looking 
building rising up behind it, had it not been 
that a tall man, clad apparently in a long gray 
gown, rushed suddenly up to the gate, just as the 
two men were passing, and rang the bell violent- 
ly. He seemed to hold something carefully on 
his left arm ; but his air was wild and hurried, 
and Jacques Coeur murmured, as they passed, 

“ Alas, alas ! ’Tis still the same, all over the 
world.” 

Jean Charost did not venture to ask the mean- 
ing of his comment, but looked up and marked 
the building well, following still upon the mer- 
chant’s rapid steps; and a short distance further 
on the great towers of the Bastile came in sight, 
looking over the lesser buildings in the front. 

Before they reached the open space around 
the fortress, however, the street expanded con- 
siderably, and at its widest point, appeared upon 
the left a large and massive edifice, surrounded 
by walls of heavy masonry, battlemented and 
machicolated, with four small, flanking towers at 
the corners. In the centre of this wall, as in the 
case of the monastery, was a large gateway ; but 
the aspect of this entrance was very different 
from that of the entrance to the religious build- 
ing. Here was an archway with battlements 
above, and windows in the masonry looking out 
on the street. A parapetted gallery, too, of stone- 
work, from which a porter or warden could speak 
with any one applying for admission, without 
opening the gate, ran along just above the arch. 

No great precaution, however, seemed to be 
in force at the moment of Jacques Coeur’s ap- 
proach. The gate was open, though not un- 
guarded ; for two men, partly armed, were loll- 
ing at the entrance, notwithstanding the cold- 
ness of the night. Behind the massy chains, too, 
which ran along the whole front line of the wall, 
solidly riveted into strong stone posts, cutting off 
a path of about five feet in width from the street, 
were eight or nine men and young lads, some 
well armed, almost as if for war, and some dressed 
in gay and glittering apparel of a softer texture. 
The night, as I have said, was in sooth very cold; 
but yet the air before the building received some 
artificial warmth from a long line of torches, blaz- 
ing high in iron sockets projecting from the walls, 
which looked grim and frowning in the glare. 

At the gates Jacques Cceur stopped short, and 
let his mantle fall a little, so as to show his face. 
One of the men under the arch stared at him, 
and took a step forward, as if to inquire his busi- 
ness, but the other nodded his head, sajdng, 
“ Good evening, again, Maitre Jacques. Pass in. 
You will find Guillot at the door.” 

“Come, Jean,” said Jacques Coeur, turning to 
his young companion ; and passing under the arch, 
they entered a small piece of ground laid out ap- 
parently as h garden ; for the light of some Ian 
terns, scattered here and there, showed a number 
»f trees planted in even rows, in the midst of 
which rose a pjiUce of a much lighter and more 


graceful style of architecture tfian the stern and 
heavy-looking defenses on the street could have 
led any one to expect. A flight of steps led up 
from the garden to a deep sort of open entrance- 
hall, where a light was burning, showing a door 
of no very great size, surrounded with innumer- 
able delicate moldings of stone. To the door 
was fastened, by a chain, a large, heavy iron 
ring, deeply notched all along the internal circle, 
and by its side hung a small bar of steel, which, 
when run rapidly over these notches, produced 
a loud sound, not altogether unmusical. To this 
instrument of sound Jacques Coeur applied him- 
self, and the door was immediately opened from 
within. 

“ Come in, Maitre Jacques,” said a man of al- 
most gigantic height. “Come in; the duke is 
waiting for you in the little hall.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Passing through a small and narrow hall, 
Jacques Coeur and his companion ascended a 
flight of six or seven steps, and then entered, by 
a door larger than that which communicated with 
the garden, a vestibule of very splendid propor- 
tions. 

It must be remembered that the arts were at 
that time just at the period of their second birth 
in Europe ; the famous fifteenth century had just 
begun, and a true taste for the beautiful, in every 
thing except architecture, was confined to th« 
breasts of a few. Cimabue, Giotto, Hubert van 
Eyk, and John of Bruges had already appeared ; 
but the days of Leonardo, of Raphael, of Michael 
Angelo, of Giorgione, and of Correggio were still 
to come. Nevertheless, the taste lor both paint- 
ing and sculpture was rapidly extending in all 
countries, and especially in F ranee, which, though 
it never produced a great man in either branch 
of art, had always an admiration of that which 
is fine when produced by others. It was with 
astonishment and delight, then, that Jean Charost, 
who had never in his life before seen any thing 
that deserved the name of a painting, except a 
fresco here and there, and the miniature illumin- 
ations of missals and psalm books, beheld the ves- 
tibule surrounded on every side with pictures 
which appeared to him perfection itself, and 
which probably would have even presented to 
our eyes many points of excellence, unattained or 
unattainable % our own contemporaries. Though 
the apartment was well lighted, he had no time 
to examine the treasures it contained; for Jacques 
Coeur, more accustomed to such scenes himself, 
and with his mind fully occupied by other 
thoughts, hurried straight across to a wide, two- 
winged stair-case of black oak, at the further end 
of the vestibule, and ascended the steps at a rapid 
rate. 

The young man followed through a long cor 
ridor, plainly furnished, till his guide stopped 
and knocked at a door on the right hand side. A 
voice from within exclaimed, “Come in;” and 
when Jacques Cceur opened the door, Jean 
Charost found himself at the entrance of a room 
and in the presence of a person requiring some 
description. 

The little hall, as it was called, was a large 
vaulted chamber about forty feet in length, and 
probably twenty-six or twenty-eight in width. It 
was entirely lined with dark-colored wood, and 


AGNES SOREL. 


7 


the pointed arch of the roof, really or apparent- 
ly supported by highly ornamented wood-work, 
was of the same material. All along the walls, 
however, upheld by rings depending from long 
arms of silver, were wide sheets of tapestry, of an 
ancient date, but full of still brilliant colors ; and 
projecting from between these, at about six feet 
from the ground, were a number of other silver 
brackets supporting sconces of the same metal. 
Large straight-backed benches were arranged 
along the walls, touching the tapestry ; but there 
was only one table in the room, on which stood 
a large candelabra of two lights, each supporting 
a wax taper or candle, not much inferior in size 
to those set upon the altar by Roman Catholics, 
and by those who repudiate the name, but fol- 
low the practices, of Rome — the mongrel breed, 
who have not the courage to confess themselves 
converted, y^t have turned tail upon their former 
faith, and the faith of their ancestors. 

At this table was seated, with paper, and pen, 
and ink before him — not unemployed even at that 
moment — man of the middle age, of a very 
striking and interesting appearance. As none of 
the sconces were lighted, and the candelabra be- 
fore him afforded the only light which the room 
received, he sat in the midst of a bright spot, sur- 
rounded almost by darkness, and, though Heaven 
knows, no saint, looking like the picture of a 
saint in glory. His face and figure might well 
have afforded a subject for the pencil; for not 
only was he handsome in feature and in form, 
but there was an indescribable charm of expres- 
sion about his countenance, and a marvelous 
grace in his person which characterized both, 
even when in profound repose. We are too apt 
to confine the idea of grace to action. Witness 
a sleeping child — witness the Venus de Medici 
— witness the Sappho of Dannecker. At all other 
times it is evanescent, shifting, and changing, like 
the streamers of the Aurora Borealis. But in 
calm stillness, thought can dwell upon it; the 
mind can take it in, read it, and ponder upon its 
innate meaning, as upon the page of some ever- 
living book, and not upon the mere hasty word 
spoken by some passing stranger. 

He was writing busily, and had apparently 
uttered the words, “Come in,” without ever 
looking up ; but the moment after Jacques Occur 
and his young companion had entered, the prince 
— for he could be nothing else but a prince, let 
republicans say what they will — lifted his speak- 
ing eyes and looked forward. 

“ Oh, my friend,” he said, seeing the great 
merchant ; “ come hither. I have been anxious- 
ly waiting for you.” 

Jacques Occur advanced to within a few paces, 
while the other still kept his seat, and Jean 
Oliarost followed a step or two behind. 

“Well, what news do you bring me?” asked 
the prince, lowering his tone a little ; “ good, I 
hope. Come, say you have changed your resolu- 
tion ! Why should a merchant’s resolutions be 
made of sterner stuff than a woman’s, or the 
moon’s, or man’s, or any other of the light things 
that inhabit this earth, or whirl around it F aith, 
my good friend, the most beneficent of things are 
always changing. If the Sun himself stuck ob- 
stinately to one point, we should be scorched by 
summer heat, and blinded by too much light. 
But come, come ; to speak seriously, this is ab- 
solutely needful to me— you are a friend — a good 
friend— a well-wisher to your country and my- 
selfi Say you have changed your mind.” 


All this time he had continued seated, while 
Jacques Occur, without losing any of that dignity 
of carriage which distinguished him, stood near, 
with his velvet cap in his hand, and with an air of 
respect and deference. “ I have told your high- 
ness,” he replied, bowing his head reverently, 
“ that I can not do it — that it is impossible.” 

The other started up from the table with some 
impetuosity. “ Impossible ?” he exclaimed. 
“ What, would you have me believe that you, 
reputed the most wealthy merchant of all these 
realms, can not yourself, or among your friends, 
raise the small sum I require in a moment of 
great need ? No, no. Say rather that your love 
for Louis of Orleans has grown cold, or that you 
doubt his power of repaying you — that you think 
fortune is against him — that you believe there is 
a destiny that domineers over his. But say not 
that it is impossible.” 

“ My lord duke, I repeat,” replied Jacques 
Occur, in a tone which had a touch of sorrow in 
it, “I repeat, that it is impossible ; not that my 
affection for your service has grown cold — not 
that I believe the destiny of any one in these 
realms can domineer over that of the brother of 
my king — not that I have not the money, or could 
not obtain it in Paris in an hour. Nay, more, I 
will own I have it, as by your somewhat unkind 
words, mighty prince, you drive me to tell you 
how it is impossible. I would have fain kept 
my reasons in respectful silence ; but perhaps, 
after all, those reasons may be better to you than 
my gold.” 

“ Odd’s life, but not so substantial,” replied the 
Duke of Orleans, with a smile, seating himself 
again, and adding, “ speak on, speak on ; for if 
we can not have one good thing, it is well to have 
another; and I know your reasons are always 
excellent, Maitre Jacques.” 

“ Suppose, my lord,” replied Jacques Occur, 
“ that this wealth of mine is bound up in iron 
chests, with locks of double proof, and I have 
lost the key.” 

“ Heaven’s queen, send for a blacksmith, and 
dash the chests to pieces,” said the Duke of Or- 
leans, with a laugh. 

“ Such, perhaps, is the way his highness of 
Burgundy would deal with them,” replied 
Jacques Cceur. “ But you, sir, think differently, 
I believe. But let me explain to you that the 
chests — these h’on chests, are conscience — the 
locks, faith and loyalty — the only key that can 
open them, conviction. But to leave all alle- 
gories, my lord duke, I tell your highness frank- 
ly, that did you ask this sum for your own private 
need, my love and affection to your person would 
bid me throw my fortune wide before you, and 
say, ‘ Take what you will.’ But when you tell 
me, and I know that your object is, with this 
same wealth of mine, to levy war in this king- 
dom, and tear the land with the strife of faction, 
I tell you I have not the key, and say it is im- 
possible. I say it is impossible for me, with my 
convictions, to let you have this money for such 
purposes.” 

“ Now look you here,” cried the Duke of Or- 
leans; “how these good men will judge of mat- 
ters that they know not, and deal with things 
beyond their competence! Here, my good 
friend, you erect yourself into a judge of my 
plans, my purposes, and their results — at once 
testify against me, and pronounce the judgment.” 

“ Nay, my good lord, not so,” replied Jacquee 
CoBur. “ You ask me to do a thing depending oa 


8 


AGNES SOREL. 


myself ; and many a man would call various con- 
siderations to counsel before he said yea or nay ; 
would ask himself whether it was convenient, 
whether there was a likelihood of gain, whether 
there was a likelihood of loss, whether he affect- 
ed your side or that of Burgundy. Now, so help 
me Heaven, as not one of these considerations 
weighs with me for a moment. I have asked 
myself but one question ; ‘ Is this for the good 
of my country ? Is it for the service of my king V 
Your highness laughs, but it is true ; and the an- 
swer has been ‘ No.’ ” 

“Jacques Coeur, thou art a good and honest 
man,” replied the duke, laying his hand upon 
the merchant’s sleeve, and looking in his face 
gravely ; “ but you drive me to give you explana- 
tions, which I think, as my friend and favorer, 
you might have spared. The spendthrift gives 
such explanations, summons plausible excuses, 
and tells a canting tale of how he came in such 
a strait, when he goes to borrow money of a 
usurer; but methinks such things should have 
no place between Louis of Orleans, the king’s 
only brother, and his friend Jacques Coeur.” 

“ Ah, noble prince,” cried the merchant, very 
nmch touched. But the duke did not attend to 
his words ; and, rising from his seat, threw back 
his fine and stately head, saying, “ The explana- 
tion shall be given, however. I seek not one 
denier of this money for myself. My revenues 
are ample, more than ample for my wishes. My 
court is a very humble one, compared with that 
of Burgundy. But I seek this sura to enable me 
to avert dangers from France, which I see com- 
ing up speedily, like storms upon the wind. I 
need not tell you, Jacques Cceur, my brother’s 
unhappy state, nor how he, who has ever pos- 
sessed and merited the love of all his subjects, 
is, with rare intervals, unconscious of his kingly 
duties. The hand of Go4 takes from him, dur- 
ing the greater part of life, the power of wield- 
I ing the sceptre which it placed within his grasp.” 

“ I know it well, your highness,” replied the 
r merchant. 

“ His children are all young, Jacques Coeur,” 
fiContinued the duke; “and there are but two 
('persons sufficiently near in blood, and eminent 
: in station, to exercise the authority in the land 
which slips from the grasp of the monarch — the 
Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Orleans. 
The one, though a peer of France and prince of 
its blood royal, holds possessions which render 
him in some sorts a foreigner. Now God forbid 
that I should speak ill of my noble cousin of 
Burgundy ; but he is a man of mighty power, 
and not without ambition — honorable, doubtless, 
but still high-handed and grasping. Burgundy 
and Flanders, with many a fair estate and territo- 
ry besides, make up an almost kingly state, and I 
would ask you yourself if he does not well-nigh 
rule in France likewise. Hear me out, hear me 
out ! You would say that he has a right to some 
influence here, and so he has. But I would have 
this well-nigh, not quite. I pledge you my word 
that ray sole object is to raise up such a power 
as to awe my good cousin from too great and too 
dangerous enterprises. Were it a question of 
mere right — whose is the right to authority here, 
till the king’s children are of an age to act, but 
the king’s brother 1 Were it a question of poli- 
cy — in whom should the people rely but in him 
whose whole interests are identified with this 
monarchy ? Were it a question of judgment — 
who is so likely to protect, befriend, and direct 


aright the children of the king as the uncle who 
has fostered their youth, and loved them even as 
his own ? There is not a man in all France who 
suspects me of wishing aught but theic good. I 
fear not the Duke of Burgundy so much as to 
seek to banish him from all power and authority 
in the realm ; but I only desire that his authority 
should have a counterpoise, in order that his 
power may never become dangerous. And now 
tell me, Jacques Coeur, whether my objects are 
such as you can honestly refuse to aid, remem- 
bering that I have used every effort, in a peace- 
ful way, to induce my cousin of Burgundy to 
content himself with a lawful and harmless share 
of influence.” 

“ My lord, I stand rebuked,” replied Jacques 
Coeur. “ But, if your highness would permit 
me, I would humbly suggest that efforts might 
strike others, to bring about the happy object you 
propose, which may have escaped your atten- 
tion.” 

“ Name them — name them,” cried the Duke 
of Orleans, somewhat warmly. “ By heaven’s 
queen, I think I have adopted all that could be 
devised by mortal man. Name them, my goctd 
friend,” he added, in a milder tone. 

“ Nay, royal sir,” replied Jacques Coeur, “ it is 
not for one so humble as myself to suggest any 
remedies in such a serious case ; but I doubt not 
your relatives, the Dukes of Alen^on and Berri, 
and the good King of Sicily, so near and dear to 
you, might, in their wisdom, aid you with advice 
which would hold your honor secure, promote 
the pacification of the realm, and attain the great 
object that you have in view.” 

The Duke of Orleans made no reply, but 
walked once or twice up and down the hall, 
with his arms folded on his chest, apparently in 
deep thought. At length, however, he stopped 
before Jacques Coeur, and laid his finger on his' 
breast, saying, in a grave and inquiring tone, 

“ What would men think of me, my friend, if 
Louis of Orleans, in a private quarrel with John 
of Burgundy, were to call’in the soft counsels of 
Alen^on, of Berri, and Anjou? Would not men 
say that he was afraid ?” 

The slightest possible smile quivered for an 
instant on the lips of Jacques Coeur, but he re- 
plied, gravely and respectfully, “ First, I would 
remark, your highness, that this is not a private 
quarrel, as I understand.it, but a cause solely af- 
fecting the good of the realm.” 

The Duke of Orleans smiled also, with a gay, 
conscious, half-detected smile ; but Jacques Coeur 
proceeded uninterrupted, saying, “ Secondly, I 
should boldly answer that men would dare say 
nothing. The prince who boldly bearded Hen- 
ry the Fourth of Lancaster on his usurped throne, 
to do battle hand to hand, in the hour of his ut- 
most triumph and success,* could never be sup- 

* Jacques Coeur, it would seem, alluded to a fact not 
generally stated by English historians, which I may as 
well mention here as a curious illustration of the habits 
of those times. After the death of the unhappy Richard 
the Second, when it was currently reported throughout 
Europe that the successful usurper had put him to death 
in prison, the Duke of Orleans sent a cartel to Henry of 
Lancaster, by the hands of Champagne, king-at arms, and 
Orleans his herald, demanding a combat of one hundred 
noblemen of France against one hundred of the Lancas- 
trian party of England, the one party to be headed by the 
duke, the other by the new King of England. He gave 
the choice of any place between Angouleme and Bor- 
deaux, and endeavored earnestly to bring about the meet- 
ing. Henry, in his reply, evading the demand, takes ex- 
ception to the titles which the Duke had given him, 
stands upon his dignity as a king, and expresses great 


AGNES SOREL. 


9 


posed afraid of any mortal man. Believe me, 
my lord, the thought of fear has never been, and 
never can be joined with the name of Louis of 
Orleans.” 

“Ah, Jacques Coeur, Jacques Coeur,” replied 
the prince, laughing, “ art thou a flatterer too?” 

“ If so, an honest one,” answei'ed the mer- 
chant ; “ and, without daring to dictate terms to 
your highness, let me add that, should you — 
thinking better of this case — employ the coun- 
sels of the noble princes I have mentioned, and 
their efforts prove unsuccessful, then, convinced 
that the last means for peace have been tried 
and failed, I shall find my duty and my wishes 
reconciled, and the last livre that I have, should 
I beg my bread in the streets as a common men- 
dicant, will be freely offered in your just cause.” 

There was a warmth, a truth, a sincerity in 
the great merchant’s words that seemed to touch 
his noble auditor deeply. The duke threw him- 
self into his seat again, and covered his eyes for 
a moment or two ; then, taking Jacques Coeur’s 
hand, he pressed it warmly, saying, “ Thanks, 
my friend, thanks. I have urged you somewhat 
hardly, perhaps, but I know you wish me well. 
I believe your advice is good. Pride, vanity, 
whatever it is, shall be sacrificed. I will send 
for my noble cousins, consult with them, and, if 
the bloody and disastrous arbitrement of war can 
be avoided, it shall be so. Many may bless the 
man who stayed it; and although, in their igno- 
rance, they may not add the name of Jacques 
Cosur to their pi’ayers, there is a Being who has 
seen you step between princes and their wrath, 
and who himself has said, ‘ Blessed are the peace- 
makers.’ ” 

The duke then leaned his head upon his hand, 
and fell into thought again. 

All this time, while a somewhat long and inter- 
esting conversation had been taking place in his 
presence, Jean Charost had been standing a few 
steps behind Jacques Coeur, without moving a 
limb ; and, in truth, so deeply attentive to all that 
was passing, that he hardly ventured to draw a 
breath. The whole scene was a lesson to him, 
however; a lesson never forgot. He saw the 
condescension and kindness, the familiar friend- 
ship which the brother of the King of France dis- 
played toward the simple merchant ; but he saw, 
also, that no familiarity induced Jacques Coeur 
for one moment to forget respect, or to abate one 
tittle of the reverence due to the duke’s station. 
He saw that it was possible to be bold and firm, 
even with a royal personage, and yet to give him 
no cause of offense, if he were in heart as noble 

surprise that the duke should call him to the field without 
having previously solemnly abjured an alliance contract- 
ed between them in the year 1396. To this the Duke of 
Orleans tartly replied, in a letter full of pungent and bit- 
ter satire. Among other galling passages is the following: 
“And ns to what you say, that no lord or knight, let his 
condition be what it will, ought to demand a combat 
without renouncing his alliance (with his adversary), I 
am not aware that you renounced to your lord the King 
Richard your oath of fealty to him before you proceeded 
against bis person in the manner which you have done.” 
And again: “As to what you write, that whatever a 
prince and king does ought to be done for the honor of 
God, and for the common benefit of all Christendom and 
his own kingdom, and not for vain-glory, nor for any 
temporal cupidity, I reply that you say well ; but if you 
bad BO acted in your own country in times past, many 
things which you have done would not have been perpe- 
trated in the land in which you live.” By such expres- 
sions he galled Henry the Fourth into an indefinite sort 
of acceptance of his challenge, though the English king 
would not condescend to name time or place. The let- 
ters are still extant, and are very curious. 


as in name. Both the principal personages in the 
room, however, in the mighty interests involved 
in their discourse, seemed to have forgotten his 
presence altogether ; indeed, one of them, prob- 
ably, had hardly even perceived him. But at 
length the duke, waking up, as it were, from the 
thoughts which had absorbed him, with his reso- 
lution taken and his course laid out, raised his 
eyes toward Jacques Coeur, as if intending to 
continue the conversation with some further an- 
nouncement of his purposes. As he did so, he 
seemed suddenly to perceive the figure of Jean 
Charost, standing in the half light behind, and 
he exclaimed, quickly arid eagerly, “ Ha ! who 
is that? Who is that young man? Whence 
came he ? What wants he ?” 

Jacques Coeur started too; for he had totally 
forgotten the fact of his having brought Jean Cha- 
rost there. For an instant he looked confused 
and agitated, but then recovered himself, and re- 
plied, “ This is the young gentleman whom I 
commended to your highness’s service. In the 
importance of the question you first put to me, I 
totally forgot to present him to you.” 

The duke gazed in the face of Jean Charost 
as he advanced a step or two into the light, seem- 
ing to question his countenance closely, and for 
a moment there was a slight look of annoyance 
and anxiety in his aspect which did not escape 
the eyes of Jacques Coeur. 

“ Sir, I have committed a great fault,” he said ; 
“but it might have been greater; for, although 
this young gentleman has heard all that we have 
said, I will answer for his faith, his honesty, and 
his discretion with my life.” 

Ere the words were uttered, however, the 
Duke of Orleans had recovered himself entirely, 
and looking up frankly in Jacques Cceur’s face, 
he answered, “ As far as I can recollect our con- 
versation, my good friend, it contained not one 
word which either you or I should fear to have 
blazoned to the whole realm of France. Come 
hither, young gentleman. Are you willing to 
serve me ?” 

“ If not willing before, sir,” answered Jean 
Charost, “what I have heard to-night would 
make me willing to shed the last drop of my 
blood for your highness.” 

The duke smiled upon him kindly. “ Good,” 
he said; “good. You are of noble race, my 
friend tells me.” 

“ On all sides,” answered .Jean Charost. “ Of 
the nobility of the sword.” 

“ Well, then,” said the duke, “ we will soon 
find an oflSce for you. Let me think for a mo 
ment — ” 

But, ere the words had left his lips, there was 
a sharp rap at the door, and, without waiting for 
permission, a man, dressed as a superior servant, 
hurried in, followed by an elderly woman in an 
extravagantly hi^h hennin — a head-di'ess of the 
times — both bearing eagerness and alarm on their 
countenance. 

“ I am sorry to tell your highness — ” cried the 
man. 

But the duke stopped him, exclaiming, 
“ Hush !” with a look of anxiety and alarm, and 
then advanced a step or two toward the new- 
comers, with whom he spoke for a few moments 
in an eager whisper. He then took several rapid 
strides toward the door, but paused ere he reach- 
ed it, and looking back, almost without stopping, 
exclaimed, “To-morrow, my young friend; be 
with me to-morrow by nine. I will send for you 


10 


AGNES SOREL. 


in the evening, Maitre Jacques. I trust then to 
have news for you. Excuse me now; some- 
thing has happened.” 

CHAPTER IV. 

For a moment after the Duke of Orleans had 
quitted the hall, Jacques Coeur and his young 
companion stood looking at each other in silence ; 
for the agitation which the prince had displayed 
was far greater than persons in his rank usually 
suffered to appear. Those were the days when 
strong passions lay concealed under calm exte- 
riors, and terrible deeds were often meditated 
and even executed under cover of the most tran- 
quil aspect. 

“ Come, Jean, my friend.” said the merchant, 
at length ; “ let us go. We must not pause here 
with these papers on the table.” 

As he spoke, he walked toward the door ; but, 
before he quitted the house, he sought diligently 
in the outer vestibule and the neighboring rooms 
for some of the domestics. All seemed to be in 
eonfusion, however, and though steps were heard 
moving about in various directions, as if some 
general search were being made, several minutes 
elapsed before even a page or a porter could be 
found. At length a boy of about twelve years 
of age presented himself, and him Jacques Coeur 
directed, in a tone of authoi-ity, to place himself 
at the door of the little hall, and neither to go in 
himself nor let any one enter till he had an op- 
portunity of letting the duke know that he had 
left the papers he was writing on the table. 

Something has moved his highness very great- 
ly,” said Jacques Coeur, as he walked through the 
streets with his young companion. “ He is not 
usually so careless of what he writes.” 

“ I have always heard him called the gay Duke 
of Orleans,” said Jean Charost, “and I certainly 
was surprised to find him so grave and thought- 
ful.” 

There are many ways of being thoughtful, 
my young friend,” replied the merchant, “and 
a light and smiling air, a playful fancy, and a 
happy choice of words, with many persons — as 
has been the case with the duke — conceal deep 
meaning and great strength of mind. He is, in- 
deed, one of the most thoughtful men in France. 
But his imagination is somewhat too strong, and 
his passions, alas, stronger still. He is frank, and 
noble, and generous, however — kind and forgiv- 
ing; and I do sincerely believe that he deeply 
regrets his faults, and condemns them as much as 
any man in France. Many are the resolutions 
of reformation that he makes ; but still an ardent 
temperament, a light humor, and a joyous spirit 
carries him away impulsively, and deeds are 
done, before he well knows they are undertaken, 
which are bitterly repented afterward.” 

Jacques Cceur paused, and seemed to hesitate, 
as if he thought he had almost gone too far with 
his young companion ; but there were more seri- 
ous considerations pressing upon his mind at that 
moment than Jean Charost, or even the Duke of 
Orleans, at all comprehended, though both were 
affected by them. He was one of the most re- 
markable men of his age ; and although he had 
not at that time risen to the high point of either 
honor or wealth which he afterward attained, he 
was in the high road to distinction and to fortune 
— a road opened to him by no common means. 
His vast and comprehensive mind perceived op- 


portunities which escaped the eyes of men more 
limited in intellect ; his energetic and persevere 
ing character enabled him to grasp and hold 
them ; and, together with these powers, so serv 
iceable to any man in commercial or political life, 
he possessed a still higher characteristic — a kind- 
ly and a generous spirit, prompting to good deeds 
as well as to great ones, always under the guid- 
ance of prudence and wisdom. He had, more- 
over, that which I know not whether to call an 
art or a quality — the capability of impressing 
almost all men with the truth of his character. 
Few with whom he was brought in any close 
connection doubted his judgment or his sincerity, 
and his true beneficence of heart had the power 
of attaching others to him so strongly that even 
persecution, sorrow, and misfortune could not 
break the bond. 

In the present instance, he had two objects in 
view in placing Jean Charost in the service of 
the Duke of Orleans ; or, rather, he saw at once 
that two objects might possibly be attained by 
that kind act. He had provided, apparently, 
well and happily for a youth to whom he was 
sincerely attached, and whom he could entirely 
trust, and he placed near a prince for whom he 
had a great regard and some admiration, notwith- 
standing all his faults, one whose character was 
likely to be not without its influence, even upon 
a person far higher in station and more brilliant 
as well as more experienced than himself. 

Although he had full confidence in JeauCharost 
— although he knew that there weIs an integrity 
of purpose, and a vigor of determination in the 
youth, well fitted to stand all trials, he neverthe- 
less thought that some warning, some knowl- 
edge, at least of the circumstances in which he 
was about to be placed, might be serviceable to 
himself, and give a beneficial direction to any ii>- 
fluence he might obtain with the duke. To give 
this, was his object in turning the conversation 
at once to the character of Louis of Orleans ; but 
yet the natural delicacy of his mind led him to 
hesitate, when touching upon the failings of his 
princely friend. The higher purpose, however, 
predominated at length, and he went boldly for- 
ward. 

“It is necessary, Jean,” he said, “to prepare 
you in some degree for the scenes in which you 
will have to mingle, and especially to afford you 
some information of the character of the prince 
you are about to serve. I will mention no names, 
as there are people passing in the street; but you 
will understand of whom I speak. He is habit- 
ually licentious. The courts of kings are very 
generally depraved ; and impressions received in 
early life, however reason and religion may fight 
against them at after periods, still leave a weak 
and assailable point in the character not easily 
strengthened for resistance. Man’s heart is as a 
fortress, my young friend ; a breach effected in 
the walls of which is rarely, if ever, repaired 
with as much firmness as at fii'st. I do not wish 
to palliate his errors, for they are very great, but 
merely to explain my anxiety to have good coun- 
sels near him.” 

“ It is very necessary, indeed, sir,” replied 
Jean Chai’ost, simply, never dreaming that his 
counsels could be those to which Jacques Coeur 
alluded. “ I have heard a good deal of the duke 
since we have been here in Paris, and although 
all must love and admire his great and noble 
qualities, yet it is sad to hear the tales men tell 
of him.” 


AGNES SOREL. 


“ Age and experience,” replied Jacques Cceur, 
“ may have some effect ; nay, are already having 
an effect in rendering good resolutions firmer, 
and the yielding to temptation less frequent. It 
is only required now that some person having 
influence over him, and constantly near him, 
should throw that influence into the scale of right. 
I know not, my dear lad, whether you may or 
may not obtain influence with him. He has 
promised me to ti’eat you with all favor, and to 
keep you as near his person as possible, and I 
feel quite sure that if any opportunities occur of 
throwing in a word in favor of virtue and good 
conduct, or of opposing vice and licentiousness, 
you will not fail to seize it. I do not mean to 
instigate you to meddle in the affairs of this 
prince, or to intrude counsels upon him. To do 
so would be impertinent and wrong in one of 
your position ; but he himself may furnish op- 
portunity. Consult you he will not; but con- 
verse with you often, he probably will; and it 
is quite possible in a calm, quiet, unobtrusive 
course, to set good counsel before him, without 
appearing to advise, or pretending to meddle.” 

“ I should fear,” I’eplied Jean Charost, “that 
he would converse very little with a boy like me, 
certainly not attend much to my opinions.” 

“ That will greatly depend upon the station 
you obtain in his household,” replied Jacques 
Cceur. “ If you are very much near his person, 
I doubt not that he will Those who give way 
to their passion, Jean, and plunge into a sea ef 
intrigue, are often in situations of difficulty and 
anxiety, where they can find no counsel in their 
own breasts, no comfort in their own hearts. It 
is then that they will fly to any one who may 
happen to be near for help and resource. I 
only say such things may happen, not that they 
will ; but if they do, I trust to you, Jean Charost, 
to use them to good purpose.” 

The conversation proceeded much in the same 
tone till they reached the lodging of the mer- 
chant, and ascended once more to the small 
chamber in which Jean Charost had been writ- 
ing. By this time, according to the notions of 
Jacques Cceur, it was too late for any one to be 
out of bed, and he and his young companion 
separated for the night. On the following morn- 
ing, however, when Jean descended to the count- 
ing-room, or office, at an early hour, he found 
Jacques Cceur already there, and one or two of 
his servants with him He heard orders given 
about horses, and equipments of various kinds, be- 
fere the great merchant seemed aware of his 
presence. But when the servants were all dis- 
patched upon their various eirands, Jacques 
turned and greeted him kindly. 

“ Let us talk of a little business, my son,” he 
said; “for in an hour’s time we shall have to 
part on our several ways; you to the Hotel d’Or- 
leans, I back again to Bourges ; for I am weary 
erf this great city, Jean, and besides, business calls 
me hence. Now let us, like good merchants, 
reckon what it is I am in your debt.” 

“Nay, sir,” answered Jean Charost, “it is I 
that am altogether in yours ; I do not mean alone 
for kindness, but even in mere money. I have 
received more from you, I believe, than you 
promised to give me.” 

“ More than the mere stipend, Jean,” replied 
Jacques Cceur; “but not more than what was 
implied. I promised your mother, excellent 
lady, God bless her, that I would give you a hund- 
red crowns of the sun by the year, and, more- 


u 

over, whatever I found your assistance was worth 
to me besides. I deal with it merely as a mat- 
ter of account, Jean ; and I find that by the trans- 
actions with Genoa, partly carried on by your- 
self in the last year, I have made a profit of six- 
teen per cent, on invested money ; on the busi- 
ness of Amalfi, transacted altogether by yourself, 
nineteen per cent. ; on other business of a simi- 
lar kind, with which I and my ordinary clerks 
have had to do alone, an average of fifteen per 
cent. Thus, in all affairs that you have dealt 
with, there has been a gain over ordinary gains 
of somewhere between three and four per cent. 
Now this surplus is to be divided between you 
and me, according to my view of the case. I 
have looked into it closely, to do justice to both, 
and I find that, as the transactions of this year 
have been somewhat large, I am a debtor to you 
a sum of two thousand seven hundred and forty- 
three crowns, two livres Parisis, and one denier. 
There is a note of the account ; I think you will 
find it correct.” 

Poor Jean Charost was astonished and over- 
come. The small patrimony of his father — just 
sufficient to maintain a man of gentle blood with- 
in that narrow limit thronged with petty cares, 
usually called moderate competence — a sort of 
myth, embellished by the poets — a kind of eco- 
nomical Arcadia, in which that perfect happiness 
represented, is as often found as the Arcadian 
shepherds and shepherdesses in plum-colored 
velvet coats and pink ribbons are found in the 
real pastoral — this small estate, I say, had been 
hypothecated to the amount of three thousand 
crowns, to enable his father to serve and die for 
his sovereign on the battle-field ; and the great 
first object of Jean Charost’s ambition had been to 
enable his poor mother to pay off a debt which, 
with its interest, was eating into the core of the 
estate. Hitherto the prospect of success had 
seemed far, far away ; he had thought he could 
see it in the distance ; but he had doubted, and 
feared, and the long jouniey to travel had seem- 
ed to dim even the sunrise of hope. But now 
the case was reversed ; the prospect seemed near, 
the object well-nigh attained, and for an instant 
or two he could hardly believe his ears. 

“Oh, sir,” he exclaimed, after some murmur- 
ed thanks, “ take it to my mother — take it all to 
my mother. It will make her heart leap for joy. 
I shall want no money where I am going.” 

Jacques Coeur gazed at him with the faint, rue- 
ful smile of age listening to inexperience. You 
will need more than you know, my good youth,” 
he answered. “ Courts are very different places 
from merchant’s houses; and if great openings 
are there found, there are openings of the purse 
likewise. But I know your object, my dear 
boy. It is a worthy one, and you can gratify it 
to a certain extent, while you yet retain the 
means of appearing as you should in the house- 
hold of the Duke of Orleans. I will take twt) 
thousand crowns to your mother. Then only a 
thousand will remain to be paid upon the mort- 
gage, which I will discharge ; and you shall re- 
pay me when your economy and your success, 
in both of which I have great confidence, shall 
make it light for you to do so.” 

Such was the kindly plan proposed by the 
merchant, and Jean Charost acceded joyfully. 
It must not be denied that to be in possession of 
seven hundred crowns seemed, in his young and 
untaught eyes, to put him among the wealthy of 
the land. It must not be denied, either, that the 


12 AGNES 

thought rose up of many things he wanted, of 
which he, had never much felt the want before. 
Among the rest, a horse seemed perfectly indis- 
pensable ; but the kindness of Jacques Coeur had 
beforehand deprived him of all excuse for this 
not unreasonable expense. He found that a fine 
horse, taken in payment of a debt from Spain, 
with bridle and housings all complete, had been 
destined for his use by the great merchant ; and 
certainly well mounted, and, as he thought, well 
equipped with all things, Jean Charost set out 
for the Hotel d’Orleans, at about half past eight 
o’clock, carrying a message from Jacques Coeur 
to the duke, to account for and excuse the sud- 
den departure of the merchant. 



CHAPTER V. 


To retrace one’s steps is always difficult; and 
It may be as well, whenever the urgency of ac- 
tion will permit it, in life, as in a tale that is 
told, to pause a little upon the present, and not 
to hurry on too rapidly to the future, lest the 
stern Irrevocable follow us too closely. I know 
nothing more difficult, or more necessary to im- 
press upon the mind of youth, than the great and 
important fact, that every thing, once done, is ir- 
revocable ; that Fate sets its seal upon the deed 
and upon the word ; that it is a bond to good or 
evil; that though sometimes we may alter the 
conditions in a degree, the weightier obligations 
of that bond can never be changed ; that there 
is something recorded in the great Book against 
us, a balance for, or adverse to us, which speeds 
us Hghtly onward, or hampers all our after efforts. 

No, no. There is no going back. As in the 
fairy tale, the forest closes up behind us as we 
pass through, and in the great adventure of life 
our only way is forward. 

Life, in some of its phases, should always be 
the model of a book, and to avoid the necessity 
of even trying to go far back, it may be as well 
to pause here, and tell some events which had 
occurred even within the space of time which 
our tale has already occupied. 

In a chamber, furnished with fantastic splen- 
dor, and in a house not far from the palace of the 
Duke of Orleans, stood a richly-decorated bed. 
It was none of those scanty, parsimonious, mod- 
ern contrivances, in which space to turn seems 
grudged to the unhappy inmate, but a large, 
stately, elaborate structure, almost a room in it- 
self. The four posts, at the four corners, were 
carved, and gilt, and ornamented with ivory and 
gold. Groups of cupids, or cherubim, I know 
not well which, supported the pillars, treacling 
gayly upon flowers ; and, as people were not very 
considerate of harmony in those days, the sculp- 
tor of this bed, for so I suppose we must call 
him, had added Corinthian capitals to the posts, 
and crowned the acanthus of dark wood with 
large plumes of real ostrich feathers. Round the 
valance, and on many parts of the draperies, 
which were of a light crimson velvet, appear- 
ed numerous inscriptions, embroidered in gold. 
Some were lines from poets of the day, or old 
romances of the Langue d’oc, or Langue d’oil, 
while, strange to say, others were verses from 
the Psalms of David. 

On this bed lay a lady sweetly asleep, beauti- 
ful but pale, and bearing traces of recent illness 
on her face ; and beside her lay a babe which 


SOREL. 

seemed ten days or a fortnight old, swathed up, 
according to the abominable custom of the day, 
in what was then called en mailotin. A lamp 
was on a table near, a vacant chair by the bed- 
side, from which a heedless nurse had just es- 
caped to take a little recreation during her lady’s 
slumbers. All was still and silent in the room 
and throughout the house. The long and nar- 
row corridors were vacant; the lower hall was 
far off. The silver bell, which was placed nigh 
at hand, might have rang long and loud without 
calling any one to that bedside ; but the nurse 
trusted to the first calm slumber of the night, 
and doubtless promised herself that her absence 
would not be long. It proved long enough — 
somewhat too long, however. 

The door opened almost without a sound, and a 
tall, gray figure entered, w’hich could hardly have 
been seen from the bed, in the twilight obscurity 
of that side of the room, even had any eyes been 
open there. It advanced stealthily to the side 
of the bed, with the right hand hidden in the 
breast; but there, for a moment, whatever was 
the intent, the figure paused, and the eyes gazed 
down upon the sleeping woman and the babe 
by her side. Oh, what changes of expression 
came, driven like storm-clouds, over that coun- 
tenance, by some tempest of passions within, and 
what a contrast did the man’s face present to 
that of the sleeping girl. It might be that the 
wronger and the wronged were there in pres- 
ence, and that calm, peaceful sleep reigned qui- 
etly, where remorse, and anguish, and repent- 
ance should have held their sway; while agony, 
and rage, and revenge were busy in the heart 
which had done no evil. 

W nether it was doubt, or hesitation, or a feel- 
ing of pity which produced the pause, I can not 
tell ; but whatever was tbfi man’s purpose — and 
it could hardly be good — he stopped, and gazed 
for more than one minute ere he made the in 
tent a deed. At length, however, he withdrew 
the right hand from his bosom, and something 
gleamed in the lamp-light. 

It is strange : the lady moved a little in her 
sleep, as if the gleam of the iron had made itself 
felt, and she murmured a name. Her hand and 
arm were cast carelessly over the bed-clothes; 
her left side and breast exposed. The name she 
murmured seemed to act like a command ; for 
instantly one hand was pressed upon her lips, 
and the other struck violently her side. The cry 
was smothered ; the hands clutched the air in 
vain: a slight convulsive effort to rise, an agu- 
ish shudder, and all was still. 

The assassin withdrew his hand, but left the 
dagger in the wound. Oh, with what bitter skill 
he had done the deed ! The steel had pierced 
through and through her heart! 

There he stood for a moment, and contem- 
plated his handiwork. What w^as in Its breast — 
who can tell ? But suddenly he seemed to start 
from his dark revery, took the hand he had made 
lifeless in his own, and withdrew a wedding ring 
from the unresisting finger. 

Though passion is fond of soliloquy, he uttered 
but few words. “ Now let him come and look,’’’ 
he murmured; and then going rapidly round to 
the other side of the bed, he snatched up the in- 
fant, cast part of his robe around it, and departed. 

Oh, what an awful, dreadful thing waa the still- 
ness which reigned in that terrible chamber aft- 
er the murderer was gone. It seemed as if there 
were something more than sileoace there — a thick. 


AGNES SOREL. 


13 


dull, motionless air of death and guilt. It lasted 
a long while — more than half an hour; and then, 
walking on tip-toe, came back the nurse. Fora 
moment or two she did not perceive that any 
thing had happened. All was so quiet, so much 
as she had left it, that she fancied no change had 
taken place. She moved about stealthily, ar- 
ranged some silver cups and tankards upon a 
dressoir, and smoothed out the damask covering 
with its fringe of lace. 

Presently there was a light tap at the door, 
and going thither on tip-toe, she found one of 
the Duke of Orleans’s chief servants come to in- 
quire after the lady’s health. 

“ Hush !” said the nurse, lifting up her finger, 
“ she is sleeping like an angel.” 

“And the baby?” asked the man. 

“ She is asleep too,” replied the nurse; “ she 
has not given a cry for an hour.” 

“ That’s strange !” said the man. “ I thought 
babies cried every five minutes.” 

Upon second thoughts, the nurse judged it 
strange too ; and a certain sort of cold dread came 
upon her as she remembered her long absence, 
and combined it with the perfect stillness. 

“Stay a moment: I’ll just take a peep and 
tell you more;” and she advanced noiselessly to 
the side of the bed. The moment she gazed in, 
she uttered a fearful shriek. Nature was too 
strong for art or policy. There lay the mother 
dead ; the infant gone ; and she screamed aloud, 
though she knew that the whole must be told, 
and her own negligence exposed. 

The man darted in from the door, and rushed 
to the side of the bed. The bloody evidences 
of the deed which had been done were plain be- 
fore him„ and catching the nurse by the arm, he 
questioned her vehemently. 

She was a friend of his, however — indeed, I 
believe, a relation — and first came a confession, 
and then a consultation. She declared she had 
not been absent five minutes, and that the deed 
must have been done within that short time ; that 
somebody must have been concealed in the room 
at the time she left, for she had been so close at 
hand that she must have seen any one pass. She 
went on to declare that she believed it must have 
been done by sorcery ; and as sorcery was in 
great repute at that time, the man might have 
been of her opinion, if the gore ard the wound 
had not plainly shown a mortal agency. 

Then came the question of what was to be 
done. The duke must be told — that was clear; 
and it was agreed by both the man and the wom- 
an that it would be better for them to bear their 
own tale. 

“ Do not let us tell him all at once,” said the 
ood lady, for horror and grief had by this time 
een swallowed up in more personal considera- 
tions; “he would kill us both on the spot, I do 
believe. Tell him, at first, that she is very ill ; 
then, when he is going to see her, that she is dy- 
ing; then that she is dead. And then — and then 
— let him find out himself that she has been mur- 
dered. Good gracious ! I should not wonder if 
the murderer was still in the room. Did you not 
think you saw the curtain move ?” and she gave 
a fearful glance toward the bed. 

The man unsheathed his sword, and for the 
first time they searched the room, which they 
had never thought of before. 

Nothing, however, could be found— not a ves- 
tige of the murderer— the very dagger that had 
done the deed was now gone; and after some 


further consultation, and some expressions of hor- 
ror and regret, they set out to bear the intelli- 
gence to the Duke of Orleans, neglecting, in the 
fear of any one forestalling them, to give any di- 
rections for pursuit of the murderer. 

The house lay close to the Orleans palace, with 
an entrance from it into the gardens of the latter. 
Through that door they passed, walked down a 
short avenue of trees and vases, crossed a walk, 
and entered the palace by a side door. The man 
made his way straight toward the little hall, 
closely followed by the woman, and found the 
duke, as I have shown, in conversation with 
Jacques Coeur and Jean Charost. As had been 
agreed, the prince was at first informed that the 
lady was very ill, and even that intelligence 
caused the agitation which I have depicted. 
But how can I describe his state of mind when 
the whole truth was known, the fire of his rage, 
the abyss of his sorrow, and more, far more than 
all, the depth — the poignancy of his remorse ? 
When he looked upon that beautiful and placid 
face, lying there in the cold, dull sleep of death 
— when he saw the fair bosom deluged in purple 
gore — when he remembered that, for the grati- 
fication of his light love, he had torn her from 
the arms of a husband who doted on her, from 
peaceful happiness and tranquil innocence, if not 
from joy and splendor — when he thought he had 
made her an adulteress — had brought disgrace 
upon her name — that he had been even, as he 
felt at that moment, accessory to her death, the 
worm that never dies seemed to fix itself upon 
his heart, and, casting himself down beside the 
bed, he cursed the day that he was born, and 
invoked bitterer maledictions on his own head 
than his worst enemy would have dared to pile 
uj)on him. 

True, in his anguish he did not altogether for- 
get his energy. Instant orders were given to 
search for and pursue the murderer; and espe- 
cial directions to beset all the doors of a small 
hotel in the neighborhood of the Temple, and to 
mark well who went out or came in. But this 
done, he fell again into the dark apathy of de- 
spair, and, seated in the chamber of death, slept 
not, took no refreshment throughout the livelong 
night. Priests came in, tall tapers were set in 
order, vases of holy water, and silver censers, and 
solemn voices were raised in holy song. But the 
duke sat there unmoved ; his arms crossed upon 
his chest ; his eyes fixed with a stony glare upon 
the floor. No one dared to speak to him or to 
disturb him ; and the dark, long night of winter 
waned away, and the gray morning sunlight en- 
tered the chamber, ere he quitted the side of her 
he had loved and ruined. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Hopk is nothing but a bit of cork floating on 
the sea of life, now tossed up into the sky, now 
sunk down into the abyss, but rising, rising again 
over the crest of the foamy wave, and topping 
all things even unto the end. 

Joyous and hopeful, Jean Chai'ost presented 
himself at the gates of the Duke of Orleans’s pal- 
ace ; but the heavy door under the archway was 
closed, and some minutes elapsed ere he ob- 
tained admission. The tall man who opened for 
him seemed doubtful whether he would let him 
in or not ; and it was not till Jean had explained 
that the duke had appointed him, and that ho 


14 


AGNES SOREL. 


was the person who had accompanied Jacques 
Coeur on the preceding night, that the man would 
let him pass the wicket. He then told him, how- 
ever, to go on to the house and inquire for the 
master of the pages. 

Jeau Charost was not very well satisfied with 
this reply ; for, to his mind, it seemed to indi- 
cate that the duke had made up his mind to place 
him among his pages, and had given orders ac- 
cordingly. Now the position of a page in a great 
household was not very desirable in the eyes of 
Jean Charost ; besides, he had passed the age, he 
thought, when such a post was appropriate. He 
had completed his seventeenth year, and looked 
much older than he really was. 

As he walked on, however, he heard a step 
behind him, and, looking round, saw a man fol- 
lowing him. There was nothing very marvelous 
in this, and he proceeded on his way till he found 
himself in the vestibule before described, and 
asked, as he had been directed, for the master 
of the pages. The man to whom he addressed 
himself said, '‘I’ll send you to him. You were 
here last night, were you not, young gentle- 
man?” 

Jean Charost answered in the affirmative, and 
the man made a sign to the person who had fol- 
lowed the youth across the garden and had en- 
tered the vestibule with him. Immediately Jean 
felt his arm taken hold of, somewhat roughly, by 
the personage behind him, and, ere he well knew 
what was t^ing place, he was pulled into a small 
room on one side of the vestibule, and the door 
closed upon him. The room was already ten- 
anted by three or four persons of different con- 
ditions. One seemed an old soldier, with a very 
white beard, and a scar across his brow ; one was 
dressed as a mendicant friar; and one, by his 
round jacket, knee-breeches, and blue stockings, 
with broad-toed shoes and a little square cap, 
was evidently a mechanic. The old soldier was 
walking up and down the room with a very ir- 
ritable air; the mendicant friar was telling his 
beads with great rapidity ; the mechanic sat in a 
corner, twisting his thumbs round and round 
each other, and looking half stupefied. The scene 
did not explain itself at all, and Jean stood for a 
moment or two, not at all comprehending why 
he was brought there, or what was to happen 
next. 

“ By Saint Hubert, this is too bad !” exclaimed 
the old soldier, at length ; and approaching the 
door, he tried to open it, but it was locked. 

“Pray, what is the matter?” asked Jean Cha- 
rost, simply. 

“Why, don’t you know?” exclaimed the old 
man. “ On my life, I believe the duke is as mad 
as his brother.” 

“ The fact is, my son,” said the friar, “ some 
offense was committed here last night, a robbery 
or a murder; and the duke has given orders that 
every body who was at the house after the hour 
of seven should be detained till the matter is in- 
vestigated.” 

“ He does not suppose I committed a mur- 
der !” exclaimed the old soldier, in a tone of 
great indignation. 

“ I can’t tell that,” replied the friar, with a 
quiet smile; “ gentlemen of your profession some- 
times do.” 

“ I never mui'dered any body in my life,” 
whined the mechanic. 

“Happy for you,” said the friar; “and hap- 
pier still if you get people to believe you.” 


He then addressed himself t() his beads again, 
and for nearly an hour all was silence in the 
room, except the low muttering of the friar’s 
paters and aves. But the gay hopes of Jean Cha- 
rost sunk a good deal under the influence of de- 
lay and uncertainty, although, of course, he felt 
nothing like alarm at the situation in which be 
was placed. At length a man in a black gown 
and a square black cap was introduced, strug- 
gling, it is true, and saying to those who pushed 
him in, “ Mark, I resist ! it is not with my own 
consent. This incarceration is illegal. The duke 
is not a lord high justiciary on this ground; and 
for every minute I will have my damages, if 
there be honesty in the sovereign courts, and 
justice in France.” 

The door was closed upon him, however, un- 
ceremoniously ; for the servants of great men 
in those days were not very much accustomed 
to attend to punctilios of law; and the advocate, 
for so he seemed, tunied to his fellow-prisoners, 
and told them in indignant terms how he had 
been engaged to defend the steward of the prince 
in a little piece of scandal that had arisen in the 
Marais; how he had visited him to consult the 
night before, and had been seized on his return 
that day, and thrust in there upon a pretense 
that would not bear an argument. 

“I thought,” said the old soldier, bitterly, “that 
you men of the robe would make any thing bear 
an argument. I know you argued me out of all 
my fortune among you.” 

The little petulant man of law had not time to 
reply, when the door was opened, and the whole 
party were marched into the presence of the 
Duke of Orleans, under the escort of half a dozen 
men-at-arms. 

The duke was seated in the little hall where 
Jean Charost had seen him on the preceding 
night, with his hair rough and disheveled, and his 
apparel neglected. His eyes were fixed upon 
the table before him, and he only raised them 
once or twice during the scene that followed; 
but a venerable-looking man who sat beside him, 
and who was, in fact, one of the judges of the 
Chdtelet, kept his eyes fixed upon the little par- 
ty which now entered with one of those cold, fix- 
ed, but piercing looks that seem to search the 
heart by less guarded avenues than the lips. 

“ Ah, Maitre Pierrot le Brun,” he said, looking 
at the advocate, “ I will deal with you, brother, 
first. Pray what was it brought you hither last 
night, and again this morning?” 

The advocate replied, but in a tone greatly 
subdued, as compared with that which he had 
used in the company of his fellow-prisoners. His 
case was soon proved, and he was suffered to de- 
part, offering somewhat humiliating thanks for 
his speedy dismissal. 

The old soldier, however, maintained his surly 
tone, and when asked what brought him thith- 
er the night before and again that day, replied 
boldly, “I came to see if the Duke of Orleans 
would do something for a man-at-arms of Charles 
the Fifth. I fought for his father, and was one 
half ruined by my services to my king, the other 
half by such men as the one who has just gone 
out. I can couch a lance, or wield a sword as 
well as ever, and I don’t see why, being a gentle- 
man of name and arms, I should be thrown on 
one side like a rusty plastron.” 

The Duke of Orleans suddenly raised his head, 
asked the old man’s name, wrote something on a 
bit of paper, and gave it to him, seeming to raisers 


AGNES 

no small emotions of joy and satisfaction; for the 
soldier caught his hand and kissed it warmly, as 
if his utmost wishes were gratified. 

The judge was for asking some more questions, 
but the duke interfered, saying, “ I know him — 
let him pass. He had no share in this.” 

The mendicant friar was next examined, and, 
to say truth, his account of himself did not seem, 
to the ears of Jean Charost at least, to be quite 
as satisfactory as could be desired. His only ex- 
cuse for being twice in the palace of the duke 
within four-and-twenty hours was, that he came 
to beg an alms for his convent, and there was a 
look of shrewd meaning in his countenance while 
he replied, which to one who did not know all 
the various trades exercised by gentry of his 
doth, seemed exceedingly suspicious. The duke 
and the magistrate, however, appeared to be sat- 
isfied, and the former then tiu'ned his eyes upon 
Jean Charost, while the judge called up the me- 
chanic and put some questions to him. 

“Who are you, young gentleman?” said the 
Duke of Orleans, motioning Jean to approach 
him. “ I have seen your face somewhere — who 
are you ?” 

“ I waited upon your highness last night,” re- 
plied Jean Charost, with the rear-guard of all his 
hopes and expectations routed by the discovery 
that the duke did not even recollect him. “ I 
was brought hither by Monsieur Jacques CcEur ; 
and by your own command, I returned this morn- 
ing at nine o’clock.” 

“ I remember,” said the duke, “ I remember 
and, casting down his eyes again, he fell into a 
fit of thought which had not come to an end when 
the judge concluded his examination of the poor 
mechanic. That examination had lasted longer 
than any of the others ; for it seemed that the 
man had been working till a late hour on the pre- 
vious evening on the bolts of some windows which 
looked from a neighboring house into the gar- 
dens of the Orleans palace, and that shortly before 
the hour at which the murder was committed 
he had seen a tall man pass swiftly along the cor- 
ridor, near which he was employed. He could 
not describe his apparel, the obscurity having 
prevented his remarking the color ; but he de- 
clared that it looked like the costume of a priest 
or a monk, and was certainly furnished with a 
hood, much in the shape of a cowl. This was 
all that could be extracted from him, and, indeed, 
it was evident that he knew no more ; so, in the 
eiid, he was suffered to depart. 

The judge then turned to Jean Charost, who 
remained standing before the Duke of Orleans, 
in anxious expectation of what was to come next. 
The duke was still buried in thought; for the 
young man’s reply to his question had probably 
revived in his mind all the painful feelings first 
produced by the intelligence which had inter- 
rupted his conversation with Jacques Coeur on 
the preceding night. 

“ What is your name, your profession, and what 
brought you to the Orleans palace last night, 
young man ?” asked the judge, in a grave, but 
not a stern tone. 

“ My name is Jean Charost de Brecy,” replied 
the young man, “ a gentleman by name and anns; 
and I came hither last night — ” 

But the Duke of Orleans roused himself from 
his revery, and waved his hand, saying, “Enough 
—enough, my good friend. I know all about 
this young man. He could have no share in the 
dark deed ; for he was with me when it w’as done. 


SOREL. 15 

I forgot his face for a moment ; but I remember 
him well now, and what I promised him.” 

“ Suffer me, your highness,” said the judge. 
“ We know not what he may have seen in coming 
or going. Things which seem trifles often have 
bearings of great weight upon important facts — 
at what time came you hither, young gentleman ? 
Were you alone, and, if not, who was with you ?” 

Jean Charost answered briefly and distinctly; 
and the judge then inquired, “ Did you meet any 
one, as you entered this house, who seemed to be 
quitting it?” 

“ No,” replied Jean Charost, “several persons 
were lingering about the gate, and in front, be- 
tween the walls and the chain; but nobody 
seemed quitting the spot.” 

“ No one in a long flowing robe and cowl, the 
habit of a priest or a friar?” asked the judge. 

“ No,” replied Jean Charost; “but we saw, a 
few moments before, a man such as you describe, 
seeking admission at the gates of»a large house 
like a monastery. He seemed in haste, too, from 
the way he rang the bell.” 

The judge questioned him closely as to the po- 
sition of the house he described ; and when he 
had given his answer, turned to the duke, saying, 
“ The Celestins.” 

“ They have had naught to do with it,” replied 
the duke, at once. “ The good brethren love 
me too well to inflict such grief upon me.” 

“ They have cause, my lord,” replied the judge; 
“but we do not always find that gratitude fol- 
lows good offices. By your permission, I will 
make some inquiry as to who was the person 
who entered their gates last night at the hour 
named.” 

“ As you will,” replied the duke, shaking hw 
head ; “ but I repeat, there is something within 
me which tells me better than the clearest evi- 
dence, who was the man that did this horrid act; 
and he is not at the Celestins. Inquire, if you 
please ; but it is vain, I know. He and I will 
meet, however, ere our lives end. My conscience 
was loaded on his account. He has well balanced 
the debt; and when we meet — ” 

He added no more, but clasped his hands tight 
together, and set his teeth bitterly. 

“ Nevertheless, I will inquire,” said the judge, 
who seemed somewhat pertinacious in his own 
opinions. “ It is needful that this should be 
sifted to the bottom. Such acts are becoming 
too common.” 

As he spoke, he rose and took his leave, bid- 
ding the artisan follow him ; and Jean Charost 
remained alone in the presence of the Duke of 
Orleans, though two or three servants and armed 
men passed and repassed from time to time across 
the further end of the hall. 

For sevei'al minutes the duke remained in 
thought; but at length he raised his eyes to Jean 
Charost’s face, and gazed at him for a few mo- 
ments with an absent air. Then rising, he beck- 
oned him to follow, saying, “Come with me. 
There is a weight in this air ; it is heavy with 
sorrow.” 

Thus saying, he led the way through a small 
door at the end of the hall — opposite to that by 
which the young gentleman had entered — into a 
large, square, inner court of the palace, round 
three sides of which ran an arcade or cloister. 

“ Give me your arm,” said the duke, as they 
issued forth ; and, leaning somewhat heavily on 
his young companion, he continued to pace up 
and down the arcade for more than an hour, 


16 


AGNES SOREL. 


sometimes in silence — sometimes speaking a few 
words — asking a question — making some observ- 
ation on the reply — or giving voice to the feel- 
ings of his own heart, in words which Jean Cha- 
rost did not half understand. 

More than once a page, a servant, or an armed 
officer would come and ask a question, receive 
the duke’s answer, and retire. But in all in- 
stances the prince’s reply was short, and made 
without pausing in his walk. It was evidently 
one of those moments of struggle when the mind 
seeks to cast olf the oppression of some great and 
heavy grief, rousing itself again to resist, after one 
of all the many stunning blows which every One 
must encounter in this mortal career. And it is 
wonderful how various is the degree of elasticity 
— the power of action — shown by the spirits of 
different men in the same circumstances. The 
weak and puny, the tender and the gentle fall, 
crushed, as it were, probably never to recover, 
or crawl awayfrom a battle-field, for which they 
are not fitted, to seek in solitude an escape from 
the combat of life. The stern and hardy war- 
rior, accustomed to endure and to resist, may be 
cast down for a moment by the shock, but starts 
on his feet again, ready to do battle the next in- 
stant yand the light and elastic leaps up with the 
very recoil of the fall, and mingles in the melee 
again, as if sporting with the ills of the world. 
In the character of the Duke of Orleans there 
was something of both the latter classes of mind. 
From his very infancy he had been called upon 
to deal with the hard things of life. Strife, evil, 
sorrow, care, danger, had been round his cradle, 
and his youth and his manhood had been passed 
in contests often provoked by himself, often forced 
upon him by others. 

It was evident that, in the present case, the 
prince had suffered deeply, and we have seen 
that he yielded, more than perh'aps he had ever 
done before, to the weight of his sorrow. But 
he was now making a great effort to cast off the 
impression, and to turn his mind to new themes, 
as a relief from the bitterness of memory. He 
was in some degree successful, although his 
thoughts would wander back, from time to time, 
to the painful topic from which he sought to with- 
draw them; but every moment he recovered him- 
self more and more. At first, his conversation 
with Jean Charost consisted principally of ques- 
tions, the replies to which were hardly heard or 
noticed ; but gradually he began to show a greater 
interest in the subject spoken of, questioned the 
young man much, both in regard to Jacques 
Coeur and to his own fate and history, and though 
he mused from time to time over the replies, yet 
he soon returned to the main subject again, and 
seemed pleased and well satisfied with the an- 
swers he received. 

Indeed, the circumstances attending both the 
first introduction and second interview of Jean 
Charost with the duke were of themselves fortu- 
nate. He became associated, as it were, in the 
prince’s mind with moments sanctified by sorrow, 
and filled with deep emotion. A link of sym- 
pathy seemed to be established between them, 
which nothing else could have produced, and 
the calm, graceful, thoughtful tone of the young 
man’s mind harmonized so well with the tempo- 
rary feelings of the prince, that, in the hour which 
followed, he had made more progress in his re- 
gard than a gayer, a lighter, a more brilliant spirit 
could have done in double the time. 

Still, nothing had been said of the position 


which Jean Charost was to occupy in the prince's 
household, when a man bearing a long white 
wand entered, and informed the duke that the 
Duke de Berri was coming that way to visit him. 
Orleans turned, and advanced a few steps toward 
a door leading from the court into the interior of 
the building, as if to meet his noble relation. 
But before he was half down the arcade, the 
Duke de Berri was marshaled in, with some 
state, by the prince’s officers. 

Leave us,” said the Duke of Orleans, speak- 
ing to the attendants, as soon as he had embraced 
his relation; and Jean Charost, receiving the com- 
mand as general, was about to follow. But the 
prince stopped him, beckoning him up, and pre- 
sented him to the Duke de Berri, saying, “ This 
is my young secretary, noble uncle; given to me 
by my good friend Jacques Coeur. I have much 
to say to you; some part of which it may be 
necessary to reduce to writing. We had better, 
therefore, keep him near us.” 

The Duke de Bei-ri merely bowed his head, 
gazing at Jean Charost thoughtfully; and the 
prince added, “ But the air is shrewd and keen, 
even here, notwithstanding the sunshine. Let 
us go into the octagon chamber. No, not there, 
it overlooks that dreadful room. This way, my 
uncle.” 



CHAPTER VII. 

“This is beautiful writing,” said the Duke of 
Orleans, laying one hand upon Jean Charost’s 
shoulder, and leaning over him as he added the 
few last words to a proposal of accommodation 
between the prince and the Duke of Burgundy. 
“ Can the hand that guides a pen so well wield a 
sword and couch a lance?” 

“ It may be somewhat out of practice, sir,” re- 
plied Jean Charost, “for months have passed 
since it tried either; but, while my father lived, 
it was my pastime, and he said I should make a 
soldier.” 

“He was a good one himself, and a good 
judge,” replied the duke. “ But we will try 
you, Jean — we will try you. Now give me the 
pen. I can write my name, at least, which is 
more than some great men can do.” 

Jean Charost rose, and the duke, seating him- 
self, signed his name in a good bold hand, and 
folded up the paper. “ There, my uncle,” he 
continued, “you be the messenger of peace to 
the Hotel d’ Artois. I must go to Saint Pol to see 
my poor brother. He was in sad case yesterday; 
but I have ever remarked that his fury is greatest 
on the eve of amendment. Would to God that 
we could but have an interval of reason suffi- 
ciently long for him to settle all these distracting 
affairs himself, and place the government of the 
kingdom on a basis more secure. Gladly would 
I retire from all these cares and toils, and pass 
the rest of my days — ” 

“ In pleasure ?” asked the Duke de Berri, with 
a faint smile. 

A cloud came instantly over the face of the 
Duke of Orleans. “ Nay, not so,” he replied, in 
a tone of deep melancholy. “ Pleasure is past, 
good uncle. I would have said — and pass the 
rest of my days in thought, in sorrow, and per- 
haps in penitence.” 

“ Would that it might be so,” rejoined the old 
man ; and he shook his head with a sish and a 
doubtful look. 


AGNES 

“You know not what has happened here,” said 
the Duke of Orleans, laying his hand gloomily 
upon his relation’s arm. “An event fearful 
enough to awaken any spirit not plunged in ut- 
ter apathy. I can not tell you. I dare not re- 
member it. But you will soon hear. Let us 
go forth;” and, with his eyes fixed upon the 
ground, he walked slowly out of the room, ac- 
companied by the Duke de Berri, without tak- 
ing any further notice of Jean Charost, who fol- 
lowed, a step or two behind, to the outer court, 
where the horses and attendants of both the prin- 
ces were waiting for them. 

Some word, some indication of what he was 
to do, of what was expected from him, or how 
he was to proceed, Jean Charost certainly did 
look for. But none was given. Wrapped in 
dark and sorrowful meditations, the duke mount- 
ed and rode slowly away, without seeming to 
perceive even the groom who held his stirrup, 
and the young man remained in the court, a com- 
plete stranger among a crowd of youths and men, 
each of whom knew his place and had his occu- 
pation. His heart had not been lightened ; his 
mind had not been cheered by all the events of 
the morning; and the gloomy, mysterious hints 
which he had heard of a dark and terrible crime 
having been committed within those walls, brood- 
ed with a shadowy horror over the scene. But 
those who surrounded him seemed not in the least 
to share such sensations. Death tenanted a cham- 
ber hard by ; the darkened windows of the house 
that flanked the garden could be seen from the 
spot where they stood, and yet there appeared 
no heavy heart among them. No one mourned, 
no one looked sad. One elderly man turned 
away whistling, and re-entered the palace. Two 
squires, in the prime of life, began to spar and 
wrestle with rude jocularity, the moment their 
lord’s back was turned; and many a monkey- 
trick was played by the young pages, while three 
or four lads, some older, some younger than Jean 
Charost himself, stood laughing and talking at 
one side of the court, with their eyes fixed upon 
him. 

He felt his situation growing exceedingly un- 
pleasant, and, after some consideration, he made 
up his mind to turn back again into the house, 
and ask to see the master of the pages, to whom 
he had been first directed ; but, just as he was 
about to put this purpose in execution, a tall, gayly- 
dressed young man, with budding mustache, and 
sword and dagger by his side, came from the lit- 
tle group I have mentioned, and bowed low to 
the young stranger, with a gay but supercilious 
air. “ May I inquire,” he said, using somewhat 
antiquated phrases, and all the grimace ot court- 
esy, “ May I inquire. Beau Sire, who the Beau 
Sire may be, and what may be his business here ?” 

Jean Charost was not apt to take offense ; and 
though the tone and manner were insolent, and 
his feelings but little in harmony with a joke, 
he replied, quietly enough, “ My name is Jean 
Charost de Brecy, and my business, sir, is cer- 
tainly not with you.” 

“ How can the Beau Sire tell that?” demand- 
ed the other, while two or three more from the 
same youthful group gathered round, “seeing 
that he knows not my name. But on that score 
[ will enlighten him. My name is Juvenel de 
Eoyans.” 

“ Then, Monsieur Juvenel de Royans,” replied 
the young man, growing a little angry, “I will 
ui turn inform you how I know that my business 

D 


SOREL. 17 

is not with you. It is simply because it lies with 
his highness, the Duke of Orleans, and no one 
else.” 

“ Oh, ho !” cried the young man, “we have a 
grand personage to deal with, who will not take 
up with pages and valets, I warrant ; a chanti- 
cleer of the first crow ! Sir, if you are not a 
cock of the lower court, perhaps it might be as 
well for you to vacate the premises.” 

“ I really don’t know what you mean, good 
youth,” answered Jean Charost. “ You seem to 
wish to insult me.- But I will give you no occa- 
sion. You shall make one, if you want one; 
and I have only simply to warn you that his 
highness last night engaged me in his service.” 

“As what? as what?” cried a dozen voices 
round him. 

Jean Charost hesitated ; and Juvenel de Roy- 
ans, seeing that he had gained some advantage, 
though he knew not well what, exclaimed, in a 
solemn and reproving tone, “ Silence, messieurs. 
You are all mistaken. You think that every post 
in this household is filled, and therefore that 
there is nothing vacant for this young gentleman. 
But there is one post vacant, for which he is, 
doubtless, eminently qualified, namely, the hon- 
orable office of Instructor of the Monkeys.” 

“ The first that I am likely to begin with is 
yourself,” answered Jean Charost, amid a shout 
of laughter from the rest ; “ and I am very likely 
to give you the commencing lesson speedily, if 
you do not move out of my way.” 

“ I am always ready for instruction,” replied 
the other, barring the passage to the house. 

Jean Charost’s hand was upon his collar in a 
moment; but the other was as strong as himself, 
and a vehement struggle was on the point of tak- 
ing place, when a middle-aged man, who had 
been standing at the principal door of the palace, 
came out and thrust himself between the two 
youths, exclaiming, “For shame! for shame! 
Ah, Master Juvenel, at your old tricks again. 
You know they have cost you the duke’s favor.. 
Take care that they do not cost you something 
more.” 

“ The young gentleman ofiered me some in- 
struction,” said Juvenel de Royans, in a tone of 
affected humility. “ Surely you would not have' 
me reject such an offer, although I know not who 
he is, or what may be his capability for giving it.”" 

“ He is the duke’s secretary, sir,” said the eld- 
er man, “ and may have to give you instruction 
in more ways than you imagine.” 

“ I cry his reverence, and kiss the toe of his 
pantoufle,” said the other, nothing daunted, add- 
ing, as he looked at Jean Charost’s shoes, which 
were cut in a somewhat more convenient fashion 
than the extravagant and inconvenient mode of 
Paris, “ His cordovanier has been somewhat pe- 
nurious in regard to those same pantoufle toes, 
but my humility is all the greater.” 

“ Come with me, sir; come with me, and nev- 
er mind the foolish boy,” said the elder gentle- 
man, taking Jean Charost’s arm, and drawing 
him away. “ I will take you to the maitre d’ho- 
te!, who will show you your apartments. The 
duke will not be long absent, and if his mind 
have a little recovered itself, he will soon set all 
these affairs to rights for you.” 

“ Perhaps there may be some mistake,” said 
Jean Charost, hesitating a little. “ I think tlmt 
you are the gentleman who introduced the Duke 
de Berri about half an hour ago; but, although 
his highness gave me the name of his secretary 


18 


AGNES SOREL. 


in speaking to that duke, he has in no way inti- 
mated to me personally that I am to fill such an 
office, and it may be better not to assume that it 
is so till I hear further.” 

“ Not so, not so,” cried the gentleman, with a 
imile. You do not know the/duke yet. He is 
a man of a single word : frank, and honest in all 
his dealings. What he says, he means. He may 
do more, but never less ; and it were to offend 
him to doubt any thing he has said. He called 
you his secretary in your presence ; I heard him, 
and you are just as much his secretary as if you 
had a patent for the place. Besides, shortly aft- 
er Maitre Jacques Coeur left him yesterday even- 
ing — the first time, when he was here alone, I 
mean — he gave orders concerning you. I am 
merely a poor icuyer de la main, but tolerably 
well with his highness. The maitre d’hbtel, 
however, knows all about it.” 

By this time they had reached the vestibule 
of the palace, and Jean Charost was conducted 
by his new friend through a number of turning 
and winding passages, which showed him that 
the house was much larger than he had at first 
believed, to a large room, where they found an 
old man in a lay habit of black, but with the 
crown of his head shaved, immersed in an ocean 
of bundles of papers, tied up with pack-thread. 

“ This is the young gentleman of whom the 
duke spoke to you, signor,” said Jean’s conduct- 
or; “his highness’s new secretary. You had 
better let him see his rooms, and take care of 
him till the duke comes, for I found young Juve- 
nel de Royans provoking him to quarrel in the 
outer court.” 

“ Ah, that youth, that youth,” cried the maitre 
d’hotel, with a strong foreign accent. “ He will 
g(;t himself into trouble, and Heaven knows the 
trouble he has given me. But can not you, good 
Monsieur Blaize, just show the young gentleman 
his apartments ? Here are tlm keys. I know it 
is not in your office; but I am so busy just now, 
and so sad too, that you would confer a favor 
(Upon me. Then bring him back, as soon as he 
iknows his way, and we thi'ee will dine snugly 
(together in my other room. It is two hours past 
the time ; but every thing has been in disorder 
this black day, and the duke has gone out with- 
-out any dinner at all. Will you favor me. Mon- 
sieur Blaize ?” 

“ With pleasure, with pleasure, my good 
finend,” replied the old icuyer, taking the two 
keys which the other held out to him, and say- 
ing, in an inquiring tone, “ The two rooms next 
to the duke’s bed-room, are they not?” 

“ No, no. The two on this side, next the toil- 
'®t- chamber,” answered the other. “You will 
find a fire lighted there, for it is marvelous cold 
in this horrid climate;” and Monsieur Blaize, 
.nodding his head, led the way toward another 
part of the palace. 

Innumerable small chambers were passed, 
their little doors jostling each other in a long cor- 
ridor, and Jean Charost began to wonder when 
they would stop, when a sharp turn brought 
them to a completely different part of the house. 
A large and curiously-constructed stair-case pre- 
sented itself, rising from the sides of a vestibule, 
in two great wings, which seemed all the way 
up as if they were going to meet each other 
at the next landing-place, but yet, taking a sud- 
den turn, continued separate to the top of the 
five stories through which they ascended, with- 
out any communication whatsoever between the 


several flights. Quaint and strange were the or- 
naments carved upon the railings and balus- 
trades: heads of devils and angels, cherubims 
with their wings extended, monkeys playing on 
the fiddle, dragons with their snaky tails wound 
round the bones of a grinning skeleton, and Cu- 
pid astride upon a goose. In each little group 
there was probably some allegory, moral or sa- 
tirical ; but, though very much inclined, Jean 
Charost could not pause to inquire into the con- 
ceit which lay beneath, for his companion led 
the way up one of the flights with a rapid step, 
and then carried him along a wide passage, in 
which the doors were few and large, and orna- 
mented with rich carvings, but dimly seen in the 
ill-lighted corridor. At the end, a little flight of 
six broad steps led them to another floor of the 
house, more lightsome and cheerful of aspect, 
and here they reached a large door-way, with a 
lantern hanging before it and some verses carved 
in the wood-work upon the cornice. 

Here Monsieur Blaize paused for a moment to 
look over his shoulder, and say, “That is the 
duke’s bed-chamber, and the door beyond his 
toilet-chamber, where he receives applicants 
while he is dressing; and now for the secretary’s 
room.” 

As he spoke, he approached a little door — for 
no great symmetry was observed — and, apply- 
ing a key to the lock, admitted his young com- 
panion into the apartments which were to be his 
future abode. The first room was a sort of ante- 
chamber to the second, and was fitted up as a 
sort of writing-chamber, with tables, and chairs, 
and stools, ink-bottles and cases for paper, while 
a large, open fire-place displayed the embers of 
a fire, which had been sufficiently large to warm 
the whole air within. Within this room was 
another, separated from it by a partition of plain 
oak, containing a small bed, very handsomely 
decorated, a chair, and a table, but no other fur- 
niture, except three pieces of tapestry, repre- 
senting, somewhat grotesquely, and not very 
decently, the loves of Jupiter and Leda. The 
two chambers, which formed one angle of the > 
building, and received light from two different 
sides, had apparently been one in former times, 
but each was large enough to form a very con- 
venient room ; and there was an air of comfort 
and habitability, if I may use the term, which 
seemed to the eye of Jean Charost the first cheer- 
ful thing he had met with since his entrance into 
the palace. 

On the table, in the writing-room, were spots 
of ink of no very old date ; and one article, be- 
longing to a former tenant had been left behind, 
in the shape of a sword hanging by one of the 
rings of the scabbard from a nail driven into the 
oaken partition. In passing through, Jean Cha- 
rost paused to look at it, and the old icuyer ex- 
claimed, “Ah, poor fellow! he will never use it 
again. That belonged to Monsieur De Gray, the 
duke’s late secretary, who was killed in a ren- 
counter near Corbeil. Master Juvenel de Roy- 
ans thought to get the post, but he had so com- 
pletely lost the duke’s favor by his rashness and 
indiscretion, that it was flatly refused him. 

“ Then probably he will be no great friend of 
mine,” said Jean Charost, with a faint smile; 

“ and perhaps his conduct just now had as much 
of malice in it as of folly.” 

Monsieur Blaize paused and meditated for a 
moment. He was at that age when the light 
tricks and vagaries of sportive youth are the most 


AGNES SOREL. 


19 


annoying — not old enough to dote upon the re- 
flected image of regretted years, nor young 
enough to feel any sympathy with the follies of 
another age. He was, nevertheless, a very just 
man, and, as Jean Charost found afterward, just 
in small things as well as great; in words as 
well as deeds. 

“No,” he said, thoughtfully; “no; I do not 
think he is one to bear malice — at all events, not 
long. His nature is a frank and generous one, 
though overlaid by much conceit and vanity, and 
carried away by a rash, unbridled spirit. It is 
probable he neither cared who or what you 
were, and merely resolved, in order to make the 
foolish boys round him laugh, that he would have 
what he called some sport with the stranger, 
without at all considering how much pain he 
might give, or where an idle jest might end. 
There are multitudes of such men in the world, 
and they gain, good lack ! the reputation of gal- 
lant, daring spiiats, simply because they put 
themselves and every one else in danger, as if 1 
the continual periling of a hard head were real- 
ly any sign of being a brave man. But we must 
not keep the signor’s dinner waiting. It is one 
of his little foibles to love his meat well done, 
and never drink bad wine. Your eyes seem 
seeking something. What is it you require ?” 

“ I thought, perhaps,” replied Jean Charost, 

“ that my baggage might have been brought up 
here, as the apartment, it seems, was prepared 
for me. It must have come some time ago, I 
think. My horse, too, I left at the gates, and 
Heaven knows what has become of him.” 

“ We will inquire — we will inquire as we go,” 
said the icuyer; “but no great toilet is required 
here at the dinner hour. At supper we some- 
times put on our smart attire ; but, in these haz- 
ardous times, one never knows how, or how 
soon, the mid-day meal may be brought to an 
end.” 

Thus saying, he turned to the door, and, tak- 
ing a different way back from that which he had 
followed in leading Jean Charost to his apart- 
ments, he paused for a moment at a little dark 
den, shut off from one of the lower halls by a 
half door, breast high, and spoke a few words to 
some invisible person within. 

“ Stall number nineteen,” growled a voice 
from within. “ But who’s to dress him ? No 
groom — no horse-boy, even !” 

“ We will see to that presently,” replied the 
6cuyer; and then seeing a man pass along the 
other side of the hall, he crossed over, spoke to 
him for a moment or two, and returning, inform- 
ed Jean Charost that his baggage had arrived, 
and would be carried up to the door of his apart- 
ments before dinner was over. 

On returning to the rooms of the maltre d’ho- 
tel, they found that high functionary emerged 
from his accounts, and ready to conduct them 
into his own private dining-room, where, by es- 
pecial privilege, he took his meals with a select 
few, and certainly did not fare worse than his 
lord and master. There might be more gold on 
the table of the Duke of Orleans, but probably 
less good cheer. The maltre d’hdtel himself was 
a sleek, quiet specimen of Italian humanity, al- 
ways exceedingly full of business, very accurate, 
and even very faithful; by birth a gentleman; 
nominally an ecclesiastic ; fond of quiet, if not 
of ease, and loving all kinds of good things, with- 
out the slightest objection to a sly joke, even if 
the whiskers of decency, morality, or religion 


were a little singed thereby. He was an exceed- 
ingly good man, nevertheless, a hater of all strife 
and quarreling, though in this respect he had 
fallen upon evil days ; and his appearance and 
conduct, with his black beard, his tonsure, his 
semi-clerical dress, and his air of grave suavity, 
generally assured him respect from all members 
of the duke’s household. 

Two other officers, besides himself and the 
icuyer, formed the party at dinner with Jean 
Charost, and every thing passed with great de- 
corum, all parties seeming to enjoy themselves 
among fat capon, snipes, rich Burgundy, and 
other delicacies, far too much to waste the pre- 
cious moments in idle conversation. 

Jean Charost thought the dinner very dull in- 
deed, and wondered, with a feeling of some ap- 
prehension, if his meals were always to be taken 
in such solemn assembly. Peals of laughter, too, 
which he heard from a hall not far off’, gave the 
gravity of the proceedings all the effect of con- 
trast. But the young gentleman soon found that 
when that serious passion, hunger, was some- 
what appeased, his companions could unbend a 
little. With the second course, a few quiet jokes 
began to ffy about, staid and formal enough, in- 
deed ; but the gravity of the party was soon re- 
stored by Monsieur Blaize starting a subject of 
importance, in which Jean Charost was deeply 
interested. He announced to the maltre d’hotel 
that their young companion, not knowing the 
customs of the duke’s household, had brought no 
servant with him, and it was agreed upon all 
hands that this was a defect to be remedied im- 
mediately. 

Jean was a little puzzled, and a little alarmed 
at the idea of expense about to be incurred ; for 
his education had been one of forced economy, 
and the thought of entertaining a servant for his 
own especial needs had never entered into his 
mind. He could only protest, however, in a sub- 
dued and somewhat anxious tone, that he knew 
not where or how to procure a person suitable; 
but, on that score, immediate assistance was of- 
fered him by the maltre d’hbtel himself. 

“ I have more than a hundred and fifty names 
on my books,” he said, “ of lads all eager to be 
entered upon the duke’s household in any capac- 
ity. I will look through the list by-and-by.” 

But, without giving him time to do so, every 
one of the gentlemen at the table hastened to 
mention some one whom he would be glad to 
recommend, leading Jean Charost to say to him- 
self, “ If the post of lackey to the duke’s secre- 
tary be so desirable, how desirable must be the 
post of secretary itself!” 

The discussion continued during the whole of 
the second course, each having a good deal to 
say in favor of his nominee, and each a jest to 
launch at the person recommended by any other. 

“ There is Pierre Crouton,” said one elderly 
gentleman. “He was bom upon my estate, near 
Charenton, and a brisker, more active lad never 
lived. He has had good instruction, too, and 
knows every corner of Paris from the Bastile to 
the Tour de Nesle.” 

“ Well acquainted with thelittle ChStelet, like- 
wise,” said Monsieur Blaize. “ I have heard 
that the jailer’s great dogs will not even bark at 
him. But there is Matthew Borne, the son of 
old James Borne, who died in the duke’s serv- 
ice long ago.” 

“Ay,” said another, “poor James, when he 
was old, and battered to pieces, married the pret 


20 


AGNES SOREL. 


ty young grisette, and this was her son. It’s a 
wise son that knows his own father. Pray, 
what has become of her, Monsieur Blaize ? You 
should know, if any one does.” 

‘‘ I know nothing about her,” said the icuyer, 
somewhat sharply. “ Her son came to me, ask- 
ing a recommendation. I have given him that, 
and that’s all I know.” 

“ Trust to me, trust to me, my young friend,” 
laid the maltre d’ hotel, in a whisper, to Jean 
Charost. I will find the lad to suit you before 
nightfall. Come to me in half an hour, and you 
ihall have a choice.” 

Jean Charost promised to follow his counsels, 
and soon after the little party broke up. 

Strange is the sensation with which a young 
man encounters the first half hour of solitary 
thought in a new situatio^i. Have you forgotten 
it, dear reader? Yes — perhaps entirely; and 
yet you must have experienced it at some time. 
When you first went to join your regiment; when, 
after all the bustle, and activity, and embarrass- 
ment, and a little sheepishness, and a little pride, 
and a little awkwardness perhaps, and perhaps 
all the casualties of the first mess dinner, you sat 
down inyour barrack-room, not so much to review 
the events of the day, as to let the mind settle, 
and order issue out of chaos; you have felt it 
then. Or, when you have joined a squad of law- 
yer’s clerks, or entered a merchant’s counting- 
house, or plunged into a strange city, or entered 
a new university, and passed through all the ini- 
tiations, and sat down in the lull of the evening 
or the dead of night, to find yourself alone — 
separate not only from familiar faces, and things 
associated with early associations, but from habit- 
ual thoughts and sensations, from family customs 
and domestic habits : you must have felt it then, 
and experienced a solitude such as a desert itself 
can hardly give. 

Seated in his writing-room, without turning a 
thought or a look to his baggage, which had been 
placed at the door for himself to draw in, Jean 
Charost gave himself up to thought — I believe I 
might better say to sensation. He felt his lone- 
liness, more than thought of it, and Memory, with 
one of those strange vagaries, in which she de- 
lights as much as Fancy, skipped at once over 
a period of fourteen or fifteen months, and car- 
ried him back at once to the small chateau of 
Brecy, and to the frugal table in his mother’s hall. 
The quaint, long windows, with one pointed arch 
within another, and two or three pale yellow war- 
riors of stained glass, transmitting the discolored 
rays upon the floor. The high-backed chair, 
never used since his father’s death, standing 
against the wall, with a knob in the centre, rest- 
ing against the iron chausses of an antiquated suit 
of armor, the plain oaken board in the middle of 
the room, and his mother and the two maids 
spinning in the sunniest nook, came up before 
his eyes almost as plainly as they had appeared 
the year and a half before. He heard the hound 
howling in the court-yard, and the song of the 
milk-maid bringing home the pail upon her head, 
and the song of the bird, which used to sit in 
March mornings on the topmost bough of an ash- 
tree,’which had rooted itself on an inner tow- 
er, somewhat neglected and dilapidated. For 
.a moment or two he was at home again. His 
paternal dwelling-place formed a little picture 
apart in his room in the Parisian palace, and the 
cheerful sunshine, pouring from early associa- 
tions, formed a strange and striking contrast with 


the sort of dark isolation which he felt around 
him. 

The contrast, perhaps, might have been as great 
if he had compared the present with days more re- 
cently passed ; for in the house of Jacques Cceur 
he had been, from the first, at home ; but still 
his mind did not rest upon it. It reverted to 
those earlier days ; and he sat gazing on the floor, 
and wishing himself — notwithstanding the eager- 
ness of youthful hope, the buoyancy of youthful 
spirits, the impetuosity of youthful desires — wish- 
ing himself once more in the calm and happy 
bosom of domestic life, and away from splendid 
scenes devoid of all warm and genial feelings, 
where gold and jewels might glitter and shine, 
but where every thing was cold as the metal, 
and hard as the stone. 

It was a boy’s fancy. It was the fancy of an 
hour. He knew that the strangeness would soon 
pass away. Young as he was, he was aware that 
the spirit, spider-like, speedily spins out threads 
to attach itself to all the objects that surround it, 
however different to its accustomed haunts, how- 
ever strange, and new, and rough may be the 
points by which it is encompassed. 

At length he started up, saying to himself, 
“ Ah, ha ! the half hour must be past ;” and quit- 
ting the rohm without locking the door behind 
him, he threaded his way through the long pas- 
sage to the office of the maltre d’hotel. 

The Italian seemed to have got through the 
labors of the day, and seated in a large chair, 
with his feet in velvet slippers, extended to the 
fire, was yielding after the most improved method 
to the process of digestion. He was neither quite 
awake, nor quite asleep, and in that benign state 
of semi-somnolence which succeeds a well con- 
sidered meal happily disposed of. The five or 
ten minutes which Jean Charost was behind his 
time had been favorable, by enabling him to pro- 
long his comfortable repose, and he received the 
young gentleman with the utmost benevolence, 
seating him by him, and talking to him in a quiet, 
low, almost confidential tone, but not at -first 
touching upon the subject which brought his 
young visitor there. On the contrary, his object 
in inviting him seemed to have been rather to 
give him a general idea of the character of those 
by whom he was surrounded, and of what would 
be expected from him by the duke himself, than 
to recommend him a lackey. 

Of the duke he spoke in high terms, as in duty 
bound, but of the duchess in higher terms still; 
mingling his commendations, however, with ex- 
pressions of compassion, which led Jean Charost 
to believe that her married life was not as happy 
as her virtue merited. The young listener, how- 
ever, discovered that the good signor had accom- 
panied the duchess from her father’s court at 
Milan, and had a hereditary right to love and re- 
spect her. 

All the principal officers of the duke’s house- 
hold were passed one by one in review by the 
good maitre d’hotel, and although the prince 
and his lady were both spoken of with profound 
respect, none of the rest escaped without some 
satirical notice, couched in somewhat sharp, 
though by no means bitter terms. Even Mon- 
sieur Blaize himself was not exempt. “ He is 
the best, the most upright, and the most prudent 
man in the whole household,” said the signor; 
“just in all his proceedings, with a little sort of 
worldly wisdom, not the slightest tincture of let- 
ters, a great deal of honest simplicity, and ii 
what we call in Italy, ‘ an ass.’ ” 


AGNES SOREL. 21 


Such a chart of the country, when we can de- 
pend upon its accuracy, is very useful to a young 
mail in entering a strange household ; but, never- 
theless, Jean Charost, though grateful for the in- 
formation he received, resolved to use his own 
eyes, and judge for himself. To say the truth, he 
was not at all sorry to find the good maitre d’hotel 
in a communicative mood ; for the curiosity of 
youth had been excited by many of the events 
of the morning, and especially by the detention 
and examination which he had undergone im- 
mediately after his arrival. That some strange 
and terrible event had occurred, was evident; 
but a profound and mysterious silence had been 
observed by every one he had seen in the palace 
regarding the facts. The subject had been care- 
fully avoided, and no one had even come near it 
in the most unguarded moment. With simple 
skill he endeavored to bring round the conversa- ‘ 
tion to the point desired, and at length asked, 
straightforwardly, what had occurred to induce 
the duke’s officers to put him and several others 
in a sort of arrest, as soon as he had entered the 
gates. He gained nothing by the attempt, how- i 
ever. “ Ah, poor lady ! ah, sweet lady !” ex- 
claimed the master of the hotel, in a sad tone. 

“ But we were talking, my young friend, of a 
varlet fitted for your service. I have got just the 
person to suit you. He is as active as a squirrel, 
as gay as a lark, understands all points of service 
for horse or man, and never asks any questions 
about what does not concern him — a most in- * 
valuable quality in a prince’s household. If he 
has any fault, he is too chaste ; so you must mind 
your morals, my young friend. His wages are 
three crowns a month, and your cast-off clothes, 
with any little gratuity for good service you may 
like to bestow. He will be rated on the duke’s 
household, and nourished at his expense; but 
ou will need a horse for him, which had better 
e provided as soon as possible. I advise you 
strongly to take him ; but, nevertheless, see him 
first, and judge for yourself. He will be with 
you some time to-day ; and now I must to work 
again. Ah, ha! It is a laborious life. Good- 
day, my son — good-day.^’ 

Jean Charost took his leave, and departed ; but 
he could not help thinking that his instructive 
conversation with the maitre d’hotel had been 
brought to a somewhat sudden close by his own 
indiscreet questions. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Great silence pervaded the palace ot the Duke 
of Orleans, or, at least, that part of it in which 
Jean Charost’s rooms were situated, during the 
rest of the day. He thought he heard, indeed, 
about half an hour after he had left the maitre 
d’hotel, some distant sounds in the same build- 
ing, and the blast of a trumpet ; but whether the 
latter noise proceeded from the streets or from 
the outer court, he could not tell. Every thing 
was still, however, in the corridor hard by. No 
one was heard passing toward the apartments of 
the duke, and the young man was somewhat 
anxious in regard to the prince’s long delay. 
What were to be his occupations, what was ex- 
pected of him, he knew not; and although he 
was desirous of purchasing another horse, in ac- 
cordance with the hint given him by Signor 
Lomelini, the maitre d’h6tel, he did not like to 


venture out, lest his royal employer should arrive, 
and require his presence. 

The unpacking and arrangement of his baggage 
afibrded him some occupation, -and when that 
was completed, he took out a book — a rare treas- 
ure, possessed by few in those days — and contin- 
ued to read till the crooked letters of the copy- 
ist’s hand began to fade upon the vellum, as early 
night approached. He was just closing the page, 
when there was a tap at the door, and a short, 
slight young man presented himself, some four- 
or five-and-twenty years of age, but not much 
taller than a youth of fourteen or fifteen. He was 
dressed very plainly, in a suit of gray cloth, and 
the light was not sufficient to show much more ; 
but every thing he had on seemed to have a gay 
and jaunty air, and his cap, even when he held 
it in his hand, exhibited a sort of obliquity of 
direction, which showed it to be impossible ever 
to keep it straight upon his head. 

There was no need of asking his name or his 
business, for both were related in the fewest pos- 
sible words before he had been an instant in the 
room. 

'' I am Martin Grille,” he said, “ and I have 
come to be hired by your lordship.” 

“ Then I suppose you take it for granted that 
I will hire you ?” said Jean Charost, with a smile. 

“ Signor Lomelini sent me,” replied the young 
man, hi a confident tone. 

“ He sent you to see if you suited me,” replied 
Jean Charost. 

“ Of course,” replied the young man. “ Don’t 
I?” 

Jean Charost laughed. I can not say,” he 
answered. “ You must first tell me what you 
can do.” 

“ Every thing,” replied the other. 

Jean Charost mused, thinking to himself that 
a person who could do every thing was exactly 
the one to suit him, in a situation in which he 
did not know what to do. He answered, how- 
ever, still half meditating, Then I think, my 
good friend Martin, you are just the man for me.” 

“ Thank your lordship,” replied Martin Grille, 
without waiting for any addition to the sentence ; 
but, before Jean Charost could put in a single 
proviso, or ask another question, the door opened, 
and, by aid of the light from the window in the 
corridor behind it, the young gentleman saw a 
tall, dark figure entering the room. The features 
he could not distinguish; but there was some- 
thing in the air and carriage of the new-comer 
which made him instantly rise from his seat, and 
the moment after, the voice of the Duke of Or- 
leans said, “ What, in darkness, my young friend ! 
My people have not taken proper care of you. 
Who is that?” 

The question applied to Martin Grille, who was 
retreating out of the room as fast as his feet could 
carry him; and Jean Charost replied, placing a 
chair for the duke, “ Merely a servant, your high- 
ness, whom I have been engaging — an append- 
age which, coming from humbler dwellings, I 
had forgotten to provide myself with till I was 
here.” 

“ Ah ! these people — these people !” said the 
duke ; “ so they have forced a servant upon you 
already, though there are varlets enough in this 
house to do double the work that is provided for 
them. However, perhaps it is as well. But I 
will see to these affairs of yours for the future. 
Take no such step without consulting me, and do 
so freely ; for Jacques Cceur has interested me in 


22 


AGNES SOREL. 


you, and I look upon it that he has rather com- 
mitted you to my charge, than placed you in ray 
service. Corae hither with me into a place where 
there is more light. Heaven knows, my thoughts 
are dark enough.” 

Thus saying, he turned to the door, and Jean 
Charost followed him along the corridor till they 
reached what had been pointed out as his toilet- 
chamber, at the entrance of which stood two of 
the duke’s attendants, who threw open the door 
at his approach. Followed by Jean Charost, he 
passed silently between them into a large and 
well-lighted room, and seating himself, fell into 
a deep fit of thought, which lasted for several 
minutes. At length he raised his head, and looked 
up in the young man’s face for a moment or two 
without speaking; but then said, “I can not to- 
night. I wished to give you information and di- 
rections as to your conduct and occupations here; 
but my mind is very heavy, and can only deal 
with weighty things. Come to me to-morrow, 
after mass, and you shall have some hints that 
may be serviceable to you. At present sit down 
at that table, and draw me up a paper, somewhat 
similar to that which I dictated this morning, 
but more at large. The terms of accommodation 
have been accepted as to general principles, but 
several particulai’s require explanation. You will 
find the notes there — in that paper lying before 
you. See if you can put them in form without 
reference to me.” 

Jean Charost seated himself, and took up the 
pen; but, on perusing the notes, he found his 
task somewhat difficult. Had it been merely a 
letter on mercantile business to some citizen of 
Genoa or Amalfi that he was called upon to write, 
the matter would have been easy ; but when it 
was a formal proposal, addressed to “ The High 
and Mighty Prince John, Duke of Burgundy,” 
he found himself more than once greatly puzzled. 
Twice he looked up toward the Duke of Orleans; 
but the duke remained in profound thought, with 
his arms crossed upon his chest, and his eyes bent 
upon a distant spot on the floor; and Jean Cha- 
rost wrote on, striving to do his best, but not cer- 
tain whether he was right or wrong. 

For more than half an hour the young man 
continued writing, and then said, in a low voice, 
“It is done, your highness.” 

The duke started, and held out his hand for 
the paper, which he read carefully twice over. 
It seemed to please him, for he nodded his head 
to his young companion with a smile, saying, 

“ Very well — better than I expected. But you 
must change that word — and that. Choose me 
something more forcible. Say impossible, rather 
than difficult; and positively, rather than proba- 
bly. On these points there must be no doubts 
left. Then make me a fair copy. It shall go 
this very night.” 

Jean Charost resumed his seat, and executed 
this task also to the full satisfaction of the Duke 
of Orleans. When all was complete, and the 
letter sealed and addressed, the duke rang the 
little clochette, or silver bell upon his table, and 
one of the attendants immediately entered. To 
him he gave the epistle, with directions for its 
transmission by a proper officer, and the man de- 
parted in silence. For a moment or two the 
duke remained without speaking, but gazing in 
the face of Jean Charost, as if considering some- 
thing he saw there attentively ; and at length he 
said to himself, “Ay — it is as well. Get your 
cloak, M. de Brecy,” he continued. “ I wish 


I you to go a few steps with me. Bring sword 
and dagger with you. There, take a light, as 
there is none in your chamber.” 

The young secretary hurried away, and in two 
minutes returned to the duke’s door; but the at- 
' tendant would not sufier him to enter till he had 
I knocked and asked permission. When admitted, 
he found the duke equipped for going forth, his 
whole person enveloped in a large, plain man- 
' tie, and his head covered with a chaperon or 
hood, which concealed the greater part of his 
face. “ Now follow me,” he said ; and passing 
the attendant, to whom he gave some orders in 
a low voice, he led the way through that corridor 
and another, then descended a flight of steps, and 
issued out by a small door into the gardens. Tak- 
ing his way between two rows of trees, he made 
direct for the opposite wall, opened a door in it 
with a key which he carried with him, and, in a 
moment after, Jean Charost found himself in a 
narrow street, along which a number of persons 
were passing. “ Keep close,” said the Duke of 
Orleans, after he had closed the door ; and then 
advancing with a quick pace between the wall 
and the houses opposite, he led the way direct 
into the Rue St. Antoine. The night was clear 
and bright, though exceedingly cold, and the 
Parisian world were all abroad in the streets; 
but the duke and his young companion passed 
unnoticed in the crowd. 

At length they reached the gate of that large 
building at which the young secretary had seen 
the man apply for admission on the preceding 
night, and there the duke stopped, and rang the 
same bell. A wicket door was immediately open- 
ed by a man in the habit of a monk, with a lan- 
tern in his hand, and the duke, slightly lifting his 
cornette, or chaperon, passed in without speaking, 
followed by his young secretary. Taking his way 
across a long, stone-paved court to the main build- 
ing, he entered a large vestibule where a light 
was burning, and in which was found an old 
man busily engaged in painting, with rich hues 
of blue, and pink, and gold, the capital letters in 
a large vellum book. To him the duke spoke for 
a moment or two in a low tone, and the monk 
immediately took a lantern, and led the way into 
the interior of the monastery, which was much 
more silent and quiet than such abodes were 
usually supposed to be. At the end of the sec- 
ond passage, the little party issued forth upon a 
long cloister forming one side of a quadrangle, 
and separated from the central court by an open 
screen of elaborately carved stone work. Here 
the old monk turned, and gave a sidelong glance 
at Jean Charost, lifting his lantern a little, as if 
to see him more distinctly, and the Duke of Or- 
leans, seeming to take this as a hint, paused for 
an instant, saying, “Wait for me here, M. De 
Brecy; I will not be long.” He then walked 
on, and Jean Charost was left to perambulate the 
cloister in solitude, and nearly in darkness. The 
stars, indeed, were out, and the rising moon was 
pouring her silvery rays upon the upper story on 
the opposite side of the quadrangle, peeping in at 
the quaint old windows, and illuminating the 
rich tracery of stone. There seemed something 
solemn, and yet fanciful, in the picture she dis- 
played. The cold shadows of the tall, fine pil- 
lars, and their infinitely varied capitals; the spouts 
sticking out in strange forms of beasts and dra*^- 
ons ; the heads of angels and devils in various 
angles, and at the ends of corbels, with the fine 
fret-work of some tall arches at one corner of the 


AGNES SOREL. 


23 


court, gave ample materials for the imagination 
to \Nmrk with at her will ; while the general as- 
pect of the whole was gloomy, if not actually sad. 
The mass of buildings around, and the distance 
of that remote quadrangle from the street, dead- 
ened the noises of the great city, so that nothing 
was heard for some time but an indistinct mur- 
mur, like the softened roar of the sea. 

In the building itself all was still as death, till 
the slow footfall of a sandal was heard approach- 
ing from the side at which the Duke of Orleans 
had disappeared. A moment or two after, the 
old monk came back with a lantern, and paused 
to speak a few words with the young man from 
the world without. '' It is a bitter cold night, 
my son,” he said, and the duke tells me he has 
come hither with you alone. He risks too much 
in these evil times, methinks.” 

I trust not,” replied Jean Charost. “ A good 
prince should have nothing to fear in the streets 
of his brother’s capital.” 

“ All men have enemies, either within or with- 
out,” replied the monk ; “ and no man can be 
called good till he is in heaven. Have you been 
long with the duke, my son ? He says you are 
his secretary.” 

“ I have been in his highness’s service but a 
few hours,” replied Jean Charost. 

He trusts you mightily,” answered his an- 
cient companion. “ You should be grateful for 
his great confidence.” 

“ I am so, indeed, father,” replied Jean Cha- 
rost ; “ but I owe his confidence to the kind rec- 
ommendations of another, rather than to any mer- 
its of my own.” 

“ Modestly answered, for one so young,” re- 
plied the monk. “ Methinks you have not been 
long in courts, my son. They tell me that mod- 
esty is soon lost there, as well as truth.” 

‘‘ I trust that I shall lose neither there,” replied 
Jean Charost, or I would soon betake myself 
afar from such bad influence. I do not hold that 
any thing a court could give would repay a man 
for loss of honesty.” 

“ W ell, I know little of courts,” answered the old 
man, “ and perhaps there is scandal in the tales 
they tell; but one thing is certain — it is very 
cold, and I will betake me to my books again. 
Good-night, my son and he walked on. 

Jean Charost began again to pace and repace 
the cloister, fancying, but not quite sure, that he 
heard the murmur of voices down the passage 
through which the monk had taken his way. 
Shortly after, he saw a tall, gray figure flit across 
the moonlight, which had now reached to the 
grass in the centre of the quadrangle. It was 
lost almost as soon as seen, and no sound of steps 
met the young man’s ear. He saw it distinctly, 
however, and yet there was a sort of supersti- 
tious awe came over him, as if the being he be- 
held were not of the same nature with himself. 
He walked on in the same direction which it 
seemed to have taken, but, ere he reached the cor- 
ner of the quadrangle, he saw another figure come 
forth from one of the passages which branched 
off from the cloister, and easily recognized the 
walk and bearing of the Duke of Orleans. But 
suddenly that gray figure came between him and 
the duke, and a deep-toned, hollow voice was 
heard to say, ” Bad man, repent while you have 
yet time ! Your days are numbered ! The last 
grains of sand shake in the hour-glass ; the moon 
will not change thrice, and find you among the 
living!” 


The duke seemed to stagger back, and Jean 
Charost darted onward ; but before he reached 
the spot, the stranger was gone. 

“ Follow him not — follow him not !” cried the 
Duke of Orleans, catching the arm of his young 
secretary, who was impulsively hurrying in pur- 
suit of the man who had put forth what seemed 
to his ears a daring threat against the brother of 
his king; ” follow him not, but come hither;’ 
and, taking Jean Charost’s arm, he pursued his 
way through the long passages of the monastery 
to the vestibule, where sat the old monk busily 
illuminating his manuscript. 

Till they reached that room the duke uttered 
not a word, except his brief injunction not to fol- 
low. But there he seated himself upon a bench, 
with a face very pale, and beckoning up the old 
man, spoke to him for several moments in a low 
tone of voice. 

“ I really can not tell,” said the monk, aloud. 
“We have no such brother as you describe ; no 
one has passed here.” 

“ He must have passed you, methinks,” repli- 
ed Jean Charost, unable to resist. “ He came 
from the passage down which you went the mo- 
ment after you had left me, and I fancied I heard 
him speak with you.” 

“ Not so, my son, not so,” replied the monk, 
eagerly ; “ I saw no one but yourself, and spoke 
with no one.” 

The Duke of Orleans sat and mused for a few 
moments ; but then raised himself to his full 
height, and threw back his shoulders, as if cast- 
ing off a weight ; and, taking the arm of Jean Cha- 
rost, quitted the convent, merely saying, “ This 
is very strange !” 

They soon reached the small postern gate in 
the garden wall, and entered the precincts of the 
palace ; but as they were approaching the build- 
ing itself, the duke paused for a moment, saying 
to his young companion, “ Not a word of this 
strange occuiTence to any one. Sup in your own 
room, and be with me to-morrow at the hour I 
named.” 

His tone was somewhat stem, and Jean Cha- 
rost made no reply, thinking, however, that he 
was very likely to go without his supper, as he 
had no one to send for it. But when he entered 
his room he found matters considerably changed, 
probably in consequence of some orders which 
the duke had given as they were going out. A 
sconce was lighted on the wall, and a cresset 
lamp hung from the ceiling by an iron chain di- 
rectly over the table. A large fire of logs was 
blazing on the hearth ; and, a moment or two 
after, an inferior servant entered to ask if he had 
any commands. 

“Your own varlet, sir, will be here to-mor- 
row,” he said; “and in the mean time, I have 
his highness’s commands to attend upon you.” 

Jean Charost contented himself with ordering 
some supper to be brought to him, and asking 
some questions in regard to the hours and cus- 
toms of the household ; and, after all his wants 
had been attended to, he retired to rest, without 
quitting his own room again, judging that the 
duke’s command to sup there had been given as 
a sort of precaution against any indiscretion upon 
his part, and implied a desire that he should not 
mingle with the general household that night. 
He knew not what the hour was, and it could 
not have been very late. But there was noth- 
ing to keep him awake, except a memory of the 
strange events of the day, and the light heart of 


24 AGNES 

outh soon shakes off such impressions, so that 
e slept readily and well. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Long before the hour appointed for him to 
wait upon the duke, Jean Charost was up and 
dressed, expecting every moment to see the serv- 
ant he had engaged present himself, but no Mar- 
lin Grille appeared. The attendant of the duke, 
who had waited upon him the preceding even- 
ing, brought him a breakfast not to be despised, 
consisting of delicacies from various parts of 
France, and a bottle of no bad wine of Beaugeu- 
cy ; but he could tell nothing of Martin Grille, 
and by the time the meal was over, the hour ap- 
pointed by the duke had arrived. 

On being admitted to the prince’s dressing- 
chamber, Jean Charost found him in his robe de 
chambre, seated at a table, writing. His face, 
the young man could not help thinking, was 
even graver and sadder than on the preceding 
night ; but he did not raise his eyes at the secre- 
tary’s entrance, and continued to write slowly, 
often stopping to correct or alter, till he had cov- 
ered one ^ide of the paper before him. When 
that was done, he handed the sheet to the young 
secretary, saying, “There, copy me that;” and, 
on taking the paper, Jean Charost was surprised 
to see that it was covered with verse ; for he was 
not aware that the duke possessed any of that 
talent which was afterward so conspicuous in his 
son. He seated himself at the table, however, 
and proceeded to fulfill the command he had re- 
ceived, not without difficulty, for the duke’s writ- 
ing, though large and bold, was not very distinct. 

To will and not to do, 

Alae ! how sad I 
Man and his passions too 
Are mad — how mad ! 

Oh ! could the heart but break 
The heavy chain 
That binds it to this stake 
Of earthly pain, 

And seek for joys all pure, 

And hopes all bright, 

For pleasures that endure. 

And wells of light, 

And purge away the dross 
With life allied, 

1 ne’er had mourn’d love’s loss. 

Nor ever cried. 

To will and not to do, 

Alas ! how sad ! 

Man and his passions too 
Are mad — how mad ! 

“ Read it, read it,” said the Duke of Orleans; 
and, with some timidity, the young secretary 
obeyed, feeling instinctively how difficult it is to 
give in reading the exact emphasis intended by 
the writer. He succeeded well, however. The 
duke was pleased, perhaps as much with his 
own verses as with the manner in which they 
were read. But, after a few words of commend- 
ation, he fell into a fit of thought again, from 
which he was at length startled by the slow toll- 
ing of the bell of a neighboring church. He 
raised his eyes suddenly to the face of Jean Cha- 
rost as the sounds struck upon his ear, and gazed 
at him with a strange, inquiring, but sorrowful 
expression of countenance, as it he would fain 
have asked, “ Do you know what that bell means ? 
Can you comprehend the feelings it begets in 
me?” 

The young man bent his eyes gravely to the 


SOREL. 

ground, and that sort of reverence which we all 
feel for deep grief, and the sort of awe excited, 
especially in young minds, by the display of in- 
tense passion, gave his countenance naturally an 
expression of sympathy and sorrow. 

A moment after, the duke started up, exclaim- 
ing, “ I can not let her go without a look or a 
tear ! Come with me, my friend, come with me. 
God knows I need some support, even in my 
wrong, and my weakness, and my punishment.” 

“ Oh, that I could give it you, sir!” said Jean 
Charost, in a low tone ; but the duke merely 
grasped his arm, and, leaning heavily upon him, 
quitted the chamber by a door through which 
Jean Charost had not hitherto passed. It led 
into the prince’s bed-room, and from that, through 
what seemed a private passage, to a distant suite 
of rooms on another front of the house. The 
duke proceeded with a rapid but irregular pace, 
while the bell was still heard tolling, seeming to 
make the roof shudder with its slow and heavy 
vibrations. Through five or six different vacant 
chambers, fitted up with costly decorations, but 
apparently long unused, the prince hurried for- 
ward till he reached that side of the house which 
looked over the wall of the gardens into the Rue 
Saint Antoine, but there he paused before a win- 
dow, and gazed forth. 

There was nothing to be seen. The street 
was almost deserted. A youth in a fustian jack- 
et and wide hose, with a round cap on his head 
— evidently some laboring mechanic — passed 
along toward the Bastile, gazing forward with a 
look of stupid eagerness, and then set off run- 
ning, as if to see some sight which he was afraid 
would escape him ; and still the bell was heard 
tolling slow and solemnly, and filling the whole 
air with melancholy trembling. 

The duke quitted his hold of Jean Charost, 
and crossed his arms upon his breast, setting his 
teeth hard, as if there were a terrible struggle 
within, in which he was determined to conquer. 

A moment after, a song rose upon the air — a 
slow, melancholy chant, well marked in time, 
with swelling flow and softening cadence, and 
now a pause, and then a full burst of song, some- 
times one or two voices heard alone, and then a 
full choi-us ; but all sad, and solemn, and oppress- 
ive to the spirit. At length a man bearing a 
banner appeared, and then two or three couple 
of mendicant friars, and then a small train of Ce- 
lestin monks in their long, flowing garments, 
and then some boys in white gowns with censers, 
then priests in their robes, and then two white 
horses drawing a car, with a coffin iipon it — a 
closed coffin, which was not usual in those days 
at the funerals of the great. Men on horseback 
and on foot followed, but Jean Charost did not 
clearly distinguish who or what they were. He 
only saw the priests and the boys with their cens- 
ers, and the Celestins in their white gowns and 
their black scapularies, and the coffin, and the 
flowers that strewed it, even in the midst of 
■winter, in an indistinct and confused manner, for 
his attention was strongly called in another di- 
rection, though he did not venture to look round. 

The moment the head of the procession had 
appeared from beyond one of the flanking towers 
of the garden wall, the Duke of Orleans had laid 
a hand upon his shoulder, and grasped him tight, 
as if for support. Heavier and heavier pressed 
the hand, and then the young man felt that the 
prince’s head was bowed down and rested upon 
him, while the long-drawn, struggling breath— 


AGNES SOREL. 


25 


the gasp, as if existence wei'e coming to an end 
— told the terrible anguish of his spirit. 

Solemn and slow the notes of the chant rose 
up as the procession swept along before the gates 
of the palace, and the words of the penitent King 
of Israel were heard ascending to the sky, and 
praying the God of mercy and of power to par- 
don and to succor. The grasp of the hand grew 
less firm, but the weight pressed heavier and 
heavier; and, turning suddenly round, Jean Cha- 
rost cast his arm about the duke, from an instinct- 
ive feeling that he was falling to the ground. 

The prince’s face was deadly pale, and his 
strong limbs shook as if with an a^ue. Bitter 
tears, too, were on his cheeks, and his lips quiv- 
ered. “ Get me a chair,” he said, faintly, grasp- 
ing the pillar between the windows ; I feel ill 
— get me a chair.” 

Although almost afraid to leave him lest he 
should fall, Jean Charost hurried to obey, brought 
forward one of the large arm-chairs, and, placing 
his hand under the duke’s arm, assisted him to 
seat himself in it. Then gazing anxiously in his 
face, he beheld an expression of deep and bitter 
grief, such as he had never seen before ; no, not 
even in his mother’s face when his father’s dead 
body was brought back to his paternal hall. The 
young man’s heart was touched ; the distinction 
of rank and station was done away, in part ; sym- 
pathy created a bond between him and one who 
was comparatively a stranger, and, kneeling at 
the prince’s side, he kissed his hand, saying, 
“ Oh, sir, be comforted. Death ever strikes the 
dearest and the best beloved. It is the lot of 
humanity to possess but for a season that which 
we value most. It is a trial of our faith to yield 
unrepiiiing to him who lent that which he takes 
away. Trust — trust in God to comfort and to 
compensate !” 

The duke shook his head sadly. “ Trust in 
God !” he repeated, “ and him have I offended. 
His laws have I broken. Young man, young 
man, you know not what it is to see the bitter 
consummation of what you yourself have done — 
to behold the wreck you have made of happiness 
— the complete desolation of a life once pure, and 
bright, and beautiful — all done by you. Yes, 
yes,” he added, almost wildly, “I did it all— 
what matter the instruments — what signifies it 
that the dagger was not in my hand ? I was the 
cause of all — I tore her from a peaceful home, 
where she had tranquillity, if not love — I blasted 
her fair name — I broke up her domestic peace 
— I took from her happiness — I gave her peni- 
tence and remorse — I armed the hand that stab- 
bed her. Mine, mine is the whole crime, though 
she has shared the sorrow and endured the pun- 
ishment.” 

“ But there is mercy, sir,” urged Jean Charost ; 
“ there is mercy for all repentance. Surely 
Christ died not in vain. Surely he suffered not 
for the few, but for the many. Surely his word 
is not false, his promises not idle ! ‘ Come unto 

me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and 
I will give ye rest.’ He spoke of the weariness 
of the heart, and the burden of the spirit-— He 
spoke to all men. He spoke to the peasant in his 
hut, to the king upon his^ throne, to the saint in 
his cell, to the criminal in his dungeon, to the 
sorrowful throughout all the earth, and through- 
mit all time ; and to you, oh prince He spoke 
also unto you ' Weary and heavy laden are you 
with your grief and your repentance ; turn unto 
him, and he will give you rest!’ 


There was something in the outburst of fervid 
feeling with which the young man spoke, from 
the deep interest that had been excited in him 
by all he had seen and heard, which went straight 
home to tiie heart of the Duke of Orleans, and 
casting his arm around him, he once more leaned 
his head upon his shoulder, and wept profusely. 
But now they seemed to be somewhat calmer 
tears he shed — tears of grief, but not altogether 
of despair; and when he lifted his head again, 
the expression of deep, hopeless bitterness was 
gone from his face. The chant, too, had ceased 
in the street, though a faint murmur thereof was 
still heard in the distance. 

“ You have given me comfort, Jean,” he said; 

“ you have given me comfort, when none else, 
perhaps, could have done so. You are no court- 
ier, dear boy. You have spoken, when others 
would have stood in cold and reverent silence. 
Oh, out upon the heartless forms that cut us off 
from our fellow-men, even in the moment when 
the intensity of our human sufferings makes us 
feel ourselves upon the level of the lowliest! 
Out upon the heartless forms that drive us to 
break through their barrier into the sphere of pas- 
sion, as much in pursuit of human sympathies as 
of mere momentary pleasure ! Come with me, 
Jean. It is over — the dreadful moment is past 
— I will seek him to whom thou hast pointed — I 
will seek comfort there. But on this earth, the 
hour just passed has forged a tie between thee 
and me which can never be broken. Now I can 
understand how thou hast won so much love and 
confidence ; it is that thou hast some heart, 
where all, or almost all, are heartless.” 

Thus saying, he raised himself with the aid of 
the young man’s arm, and walked slowly back 
to his own apartments by the way he had come. 

When they had entered his toilet-chamber, the 
duke cast himself into a chair, saying, “ Now leave 
me, De Brecy; but be not far off. I need not 
tell you not to speak of any thing you have seen. 
I know you will not. I will send for you soon ; 
but I must have time for thought.” 

Jean Charost withdrew and sought his own 
room ; but it is not to be denied that the moment 
was a perilous one for his favor with the Duke 
of Orleans. It is a very dangerous thing to wit- 
ness the weaknesses of great men — or those 
emotions which they look upon as weaknesses. 
Pride, vanity, doubt, fear, suspicion, all whisper 
hate against those who can testify that they are 
not so strong as the world supposes. Alas, that 
it should be so ! But so it is ; and it was but by 
a happy quality in the mind of the Duke of Or- 
leans — the native frankness and generosity of hia 
disposition — that Jean Charost escaped the fate 
of so many who have witnessed the secret emo- 
tion of princes. Happily for himself, he knew 
not that there was any peril, and felt, though in a 
different sense, that, as the prince had said, there 
was a new tie between him and his royal master. 



CHAPTER X. 


At the corner of a street, on the island which 
formed the first nucleus round which gathered 
the great city of Paris, was a small booth, pro- 
truding from a little, ill-favored house, some three 
or four hundred yards from the church of Notre 
Dame. This booth consisted merely of a coarse 
wooden shed, open in front, and only covered 
overhead by rough, uusmoothed planks, while 


26 


AGNES SOREL. 


upon a rude table or counter, running along the 
front, appeared a number of articles of cutlery, 
knives, great rings, and other iron ware, com- 
prising the daggers worn, and often used in a 
sanguinary manner, by the lower order of citi- 
zens ; for, though the possessor of the stall was 
not a regular armorer by profession, he did not 
think himself prohibited from dealing in the 
weapons employed by his own class. Written 
in white chalk upon a board over the booth were 
the words, “ Simon, dit Caboche, Maiti*e Coutel- 
lier.” 

Behind the table on which his goods were dis- 
played appeared the personage to whom the 
above inscription referred : a man of some forty- 
five or forty-six years of age, tall, brawny, and 

E owerful, with his huge arms bare up to the el- 
ows, notwithstanding the severity of the weath- 
er. His countenance was any thing but prepos- 
sessing, and yet there was a certain commanding 
energy in the broad, square forehead and mass- 
ive under jaw, which spoke, truly enough, the 
character of the man, and obtained for him con- 
siderable influence with peoplefof his own class. 
Yet he was exceedingly 'Ugly ; his cheek bones 
high and prominent ; his eyes small, fierce, and 
flashing, and his nose turned up in the air, as if 
in contempt of every thing below it. His skin 
was so begrimed with dirt, that its original color 
could with difficulty be distinguished ; but it was 
probably of that d:ark, saturnine brown, which 
seldom looks completely clean ; for his hair was 
of the stiff', black, bristly nature which usually 
goes with that complexion. 

Limping about in the shop beside him was a 
ci’eature, which even youth — usually so full of its 
own special charms — could not render beautiful 
or graceful. Nature seemed to have stamped 
upon it, from its birth, the most repulsive marks. 
It was a boy of some ten or twelve years old, 
but still his eyes hardly reached above the table 
on which the cutler’s goods were displayed ; but, 
by a peculiarity not uncommon, the growth 
which should have been upright had, by some 
obstacle, been forced to spread out laterally, and 
the shoulders, ribs, and hips were as broad as 
those of a grown man. The back was hump- 
ed, though not very distinctly so ; the legs were 
both short, but one was shorter than the other ; 
and one eye was defective, probably from his 
birth. So short, so stout, so squared was the 
whole body, that it looked more like a cube, 
with a large head and very short legs, than a hu- 
man form; but, though the gait was awkward 
and unsightly to the eyes, that little creature was 
possessed of singular activity,’ and of vexy great 
strength, notwithstanding his deformity. 

It was a curious thing to see the father and the 
son standing together; the one with his great, 
powerful, well-developed limbs, and the other 
with his minute and apparently slender form. 
One could hai’dly believe that the one was the 
offspring of the other. Yet so it was. Maitre 
Simon was the father of that deformed dwarf, 
whose appearance would have been quite suffi- 
cient to draw the hooting boys of Paris after him 
when he appeared in the streets, had not the vig- 
or and unmerciful severity of his father’s arm 
kept even the little vagabonds of the most tur- 
bulent city in the world in awe. 

That which might seem most strange, though 
in reality it was not so at all, was the doting 
fondness of the stern, powerful father for that 
misshapen child. It seems a rule of Nature, that 


where she refuses to any one the personal attrac- 
tions which, often undeservedly, command re- 
gard, she places in the bosom ol some other kin- 
dred being that strong affection which generous- 
ly gives gratuitously the love for which there 
seems so little claim. 

The father and the son had obtained, first from 
the boys of the town, and then from elder peo- 
ple, the nicknames of the big Caboche and the 
little Caboche, and, with a good-humor very com- 
mon in France, they had themselves adopted 
these epithets without offense ; so that the cutler 
was constantly addressed by his companions 
merely as Caboche, and had even placed that 
title over his door. During the hours when he 
tended his shop, or was engaged in the manual 
label's of his trade, the boy was almost always 
with him, limping round him, making observa- 
tions upon every thing, and enlivening his fa- 
ther’s occupations by a sort of pungent wit, pei'- 
haps a little smacking of buffoonery, which, if 
not a gift, could be nowhere so well acquired as 
in the streets of Paris, and in which the hard 
spirit of the cutler greatly delighted. 

Nevertheless, the characters of the father and 
the son were not less strongly in contrast than 
their corporeal frames. Notwithstanding an oc- 
casional moroseness and acerbity, perhaps en- 
gendered by a sad comparison of his own phys- 
ical powers with those of others of his age, thero 
was in the boy’s nature a fund of kindly sympa- 
thies and gentle affections, which characterized 
his actions more than his words; and as we all 
love contrasts, the secret of his father’s strong af- 
fection for him might be, in part, the opposition 
between their several dispositions. 

It was about three o’clock in the day, the hour 
when Parisians are most abroad; but the cold 
kept many within doors, and but one person had 
stopped at the booth to buy. 

“ Trade is ruined,” said big Caboche, in a 
grumbling tone. No business is doing. The 
king’s sickness and his brother’s influence have 
utterly destroyed the trade of the city. Armor- 
ers, and embroiderers, and dealers in idle gold- 
smiths’ work, may make a living ; but no one 
else can gain his bread. There has not been a 
single soul in the shop this morning, except an 
old woman who wanted an ax to cut her meat, 
because it was frozen.” 

“ My father,” replied the boy, “ it was not the 
king nor the Duke of Orleans that made tlie 
Seine freeze, or pinched old Joaquim’s nose, or 
burned old Jeannette’s flannel coat, or kept any 
of the folks in who would have been out if it had 
not been so cold. Don’t you see there is nobody 
in the street but those who have only one coat, 
and that a thin one. They come out because the 
frosty sunshine is better than no shine at all ; and, 
though they keep their hands in their pockets, 
they won’t draw them out, because you won’t 
let them have goods without money, and they 
have not money to buy goods. But here comes 
Cousin Martin, as fine as a popinjay. It must 
have snowed feathers, I think, to have clothed 
his back so gayly.” 

“ Ah, the scapegrace !” exclaimed Caboche. 
‘‘ I should think that he had just been plunder- 
ing some empty-headed master, if my pot had 
not reason to know that he has had no master to 
plunder for these last three months. Well, Mas- 
ter Never-do-well, what brings you here in such 
smart plumes 1 Violet and yellow, with a silvet 
lace, upon my life ! If you are so folly fledged. 


AGNES 

methinks you can pick up your own grain with- 
out coming to mine.” 

“ And so I can, and so I will, uncle,” replied 
our friend Martin Grille, pausing at the entrance 
of the booth to look at himself from head to foot, 
in evident admiration of his own appearance. 

Did you ever see any thing fit better? Upon 
my life, it is a perfect marvel that any man 
should ever have been made so perfectly like me 
as to have worn these clothes before, without the 
slightest alteration! Nobody would believe it.” 

“ Nobody will believe they are your own. 
Cousin Martin,” said the deformed boy, with a 
grin. 

“ But they are my own. Petit Jean,” answer- 
ed Martin Grille, with a very grand air; “for I 
have bought them, and paid for them; and though 
they may have been stolen, for aught I know, 
before I had them, I had no hand in the stealing, 
foi de valet” 

“Ah,” said Caboche, dryly, “men always gave 
you credit for more ingenuity than you possess, 
and they will in this instance also. I always said 
you were a good-humored, foolish, hair-brained 
lad, without wit enough to take a bird’s nest or 
bamboozle a goose ; but people would not be- 
lieve me, even when you were clad in hodden 
ray. What will they think now, when you 
ance about in silk and broadcloth?” 

“ Why they’ll think, good uncle, that I have 
all the wit they imagined, and all the honesty 
you knew me to have. But I’ll tell you all about 
it, that my own relations, at least, may have 
cause to glorify themselves.” 

“ Get you gone — get you gone,” cried the cut- 
ler, in a rough, but not ill-humored tone. “I 
don’t want to know how you got the clothes.” 

“ Tell me, Martin, tell me,” said the boy; “I 
should like to hear, of all things. Perhaps I may 
get some in the same way, some day.” 

“ Mayhap,” answered Martin Grille, seating 
himself on a bench, and kindly putting his arm 
round the deformed boy’s neck. “ Well, you 
must know. Petit Jean, that there is a certain 
Signor Lomelini, who is maitre d’hbtel to his 
highness the Duke of Orleans — ” 

“ Big Caboche growled out a curse between 
his teeth ; for while pretending to occupy him- 
self with other things, he was listening to the tale 
all the time, and the Duke of Orleans was with 
him an object of that strange, fanciful, prejudiced 
hatred, which men of inferior station very often 
conceive, without the slightest cause, against per- 
sons placed above them. 

“ Well, this Signor Lomelini — ” 

“ There, there,” cried Caboche ; “ we know 
all about that long ago. How his mule put its 
foot into a hole in the street, and tumbled him 
head over heels into the gutter, and you picked 
him out, and scraped, and wiped him, and took 
him back clean and sound, though desperately 
frightened, and a little bruised. We recollect 
all about that, and what gay day-dreams you 
built up, and thought your fortune made. Has he 
recollected you at last, and given you a cast off 
suit of clothes ? He has been somewhat tardy 
m his gratitude, and niggardly, too.” 

“All wrong, uncle mine, all wrong!” replied 
Martin Grille, laughing. “ There has been hardly 
a day on which I have not seen him since, and 
when I hav’n’t dined with you, I have dined at 
the Hotel d’Orleans. He found out what you 
never found out ; that I was dexterous, servicea- 
ble, and discreet, and many has been the little 


SOREL. 07 

job which required dispatch and secrecy which 
I have done for him.” 

“Ay, dirty work, I trow,” growled Caboche; 
but Martin Grille preceded with his tale, without 
heeding his uncle’s accustomed interruptions. 

“ Well, Signor Lomelini always promised,” he 
said, “ to get me rated on the duke’s household. 
There was a prospect for a penniless lad. Petit 
Jean 

“As well get you posted in the devil’s kitchen,” 
said Caboche, “and make you Satan’s turnspit.” 

“But are you placed — but are you placed?” 
cried the deformed boy, eagerly. 

“ You shall hear all in good time,” answered 
Martin Grille. “He promised, as I have said, 
to get me rated as soon as there was any vacancy ; 
but the devil seemed in all the people. Not one 
of them would die, except old Angelo, the squire 
of the stirrup, and Monsieur De Gray, the duke’s 
secretary. But those places were far too high 
for me.” 

“ I see not why they should be,” answered the 
deformed boy, “ except that the squire is expected 
to fight at his lord’s side, and the secretary to 
write for him ; and I fancy. Cousin Martin, thou 
wouldst make as bad a hand at the one as the 
other.” 

“ Ha, ha, ha !” shouted Caboche ; “ he hit thee 
there, Martin.” * 

“ On my life ! I don’t know,” answered Martin 
Grille ; “ for I never tried either. However, 
yesterday afternoon the signor sent for me, and 
told me that the duke had got a new secretary — 
quite a young man, who knew veiy little of life, 
less of Paris, and nothing of a court: that this 
young gentleman had got no servant, and wanted 
one ; that he had recommended me, and that I 
should be taken if I could recommend myself. 
I went to him in the gray of the evening, to set 
off my apparel the better, but I found the youth 
not quite so pastoral as I expected, and he began 
to ask me questions. Questions are veiy trouble- 
some things, and answers still more so ; so I made 
mine as short as possible.” 

“ And he engaged you,” cried the boy, eagerly. 

“ On my life ! I can hardly say that,” replied 
Martin Grille. “ But the Duke of Orleans him- 
self just happened to come in at the nick of time, 
when I was beginning to get a little puzzled. So 
I thought it best to take it for granted I was en- 
gaged ; and making my way as fast as possible 
out of the august presence of my master, and my 
master’s master, I went away to Signor Lomelini 
and told him I was hired, all through his influ- 
ence. So, then, he patted me on the shoulder, 
and called me a brave lad. He told me, more- 
over, to get myself put in decent costume, and 
wait upon the young gentleman early the next 
morning.” 

“Ay, that’s the question,” cried Caboche; 
“ where did you get the clothes ? Did you steal 
them from your new master the first day ; for you 
will not say that Lomelini gave them to you. If 
so, men have belied him.” 

“ No,” said Martin, in an exceedingly doubtful 
tone, “ no — I can’t say he exhibits his money. 
What his own coin is made of, I can not tell. I 
never saw any of it that I know of. He pays out 
of other men’s pockets though, and he has been 
as good as his word with me.” 

“ How so?” asked the cutler. 

“ Why, you must know,” answered Martin, 
with an important air, “ that every servant in the 
duke’s house is rated on the duke’s household. 


28 


AGNES SOREL. 


Each gentleman, down to the very pages, has one 
or more valets, and they are all on the household- 
book. To prevent excess, however, and with a 
paternal solicitude to keep them out of debt, the 
maitre d’h6tel takes upon himself the task of 
paying all the valets, sending in to the treasurer 
a regular account against each master every 
month, to be deducted from that master’s salary ; 
and, as it is the custom to give earnest to a valet 
when he is engaged, I persuaded the signor to 
advance me a sufficient number of crowns to car- 
ry me on silver wings to a frippery shop.” 

“ Where you spent the last penny, Cousin Mar- 
tin,” said the deformed boy, with a sly smile. 

“ No, I did not, Petit Jean,” replied Martin 
Grille ; for I brought one whole crown to you. 
There, my boy ; you are a good lad, and I love 
you dearly, though you do break your sharp wit 
across my hard head sometimes — take it, take it !” 

The boy looked as if he would very much like 
to have the crown, but still put it away from him, 
with fingers itching as much to clutch it as Cresar’s 
on the Lupercal. 

“ Take it,” repeated Martin Grille. “ I owe 
your father much more than that.” 

“You owe me nothing,” answered Caboche, 
quickly ; and then added in a softened tone, as he 
saw how eagerly the boy looked at the piece of 
money : “ you may take it, my son. That will 
show Martin that I really think he owes me 
nothing. What I have given^^him was given for 
blood relationship, and what h^ gives you is given 
in the same way.” 

The boy took it, exclaiming, “Thank you, 
Martin — thank you. Now I will buy me a viol 
of my own ; for neighbor Pierrot says I spoil his, 
just because I make it give out sounds that he 
can not." 

“Ay, thou had’st always a hankering after 
music,” said Martin Grille. “ Be diligent, be 
diligent, Petit Jean, and play me a fine tune on 
your fiddle at my return ; for we are all away to- 
moiTow morning by the crow of the cock.” 

“Where to?” exclaimed Caboche, eagerly. 
“More wrangling toward, I warrant. Some 
day I shall have to put on the salad and corse- 
let myself, for this strife is ruining France; and 
if the Duke of Orleans will not let his noble cous- 
in of Burgundy save the country, all good men 
must join to force him.” 

“Ay, ay, uncle. You always take a leap in 
the dark when the Duke of Orleans’ name is 
mentioned. There’s no wrangling, there’s no 
quarreling, there’s no strife. All is peace and 
good-will between the two dukes ; and this is no 
patched up business, but a regular treaty, which 
will last till you are in your grave, and Petit Jean 
is an old man. We shall see bright days yet, for 
all that’s come and gone. But the truth is, the 
duke is ill, and this business being happily settled, 
he goes off for his Castle ofBeaute to-morrow, to 
have a little peace and quiet.” 

“ 111 ! what makes him ill ?” asked the cutler. 
“ If he had to work from morning till night to get 
a few sous, or to stand here in this cold shop all 
day long, with nobody coming ki to buy, he’d 
have a right to be ill. But he has every thing he 
wants, and more than he ought to have. What 
makes him ill?” 

“Ah, that I can’t say,” answered Martin Grille. 
“ There has something gone wrong in the house- 
hold, and he has been very sad ; but great men’s 
servants may use their eyes, but must hold their 
tongues. God mend us all.” 


“ Much need of it,” answered Caboche, “and 
him first. Well, I would rather be a rag-picker 
out of the gutter than one of your discreet, see- 
every thing, say-nothing serving-men — your cur- 
riers of favor, your silent, secret depositories of 
other men’s wickedness. What I see I must 
speak, and what I think, too. It is the basest 
part of pimping, to stand by and say nothing. 
Out upon such a trade.” 

“ Well, uncle, every one loves his own best,” 
answered Martin Grille. “ I, for instance, would 
not make knives for people to cut each other’s 
throats with. But for my part, I think the best 
plan is for each man to mind his own business, 
and not to care for what other people do. I have 
no more business with my master’s secrets than 
with his purse, and if he trusts either the one or 
the other with me, my duty is to keep them 
safely.” 

By his tone, Martin Grille seemed a little net- 
tled ; but the rough cutler only laughed at him, 
saying, “ Mind, you do that, nephew of mine, and 
you will be the very prince of valets. I never 
knew one who would not finger the purse, or be- 
tray a secret, if occasion served ; but thou art a 
phoenix in thy way, so God speed thee and keep 
thee honest.” 

“ I say amen,” answered Martin Grille, turn- 
ing to leave the booth; “I only came to wish 
you both good-by; for when a man once sets 
out from Paris there is no knowing when he may 
return again.” 

“ Oh, he is certain to come back some time,” 
replied the cutler. “ Paris is the centre of all the 
world, and every thing is drawn toward it by a 
force not to be resisted. So fare you well, my 
good nephew, and let us see you when you come 
back.” 

Martin promised to come and visit the cutler 
and his son as soon as he returned, and then 
sauntered away, feeling himself as fine in his new 
clothes as a school-boy in a holiday suit. 

The cutler resumed his avocations again ; but 
could not forbear some grumbling observations 
upon valets and valetry, which perhaps he might 
have spared, had he understood his nephew’s 
character rightly. About quarter of an hour, 
however, after the young man had left the shop, 
a letter, neatly tied and sealed, was brought by 
a young boy, apparently one of the choristers of 
some great church or cathedral. It was addressed 
“To Martin Grille ;” and, whatever might be his 
curiosity, Caboche did not venture to open it, 
but sent the lad on to the palace of the Duke of 
Orleans, telling him he would find his nephew 
there. 

CHAPTER XL 

I KNOW few things more pleasant than a stroll 
through Paris, as I remember it, in a fine early 
winter’s morning. There was an originality 
about the people whom one saw out and abroad 
at that period of the day — a gay, cheerful, pleas- 
ant originality — which is not met with in any 
other nation. Granted that this laughing sem- 
blance was but the striped skin of the tiger, and 
that underneath there was a world of untamable 
ferocity, which made the cat-like creature dan- 
gerous to play with; yet still the sight was an 
agreeable one, one that the mind’s eye rested 
upon with sensations of pleasure. The sights, 
too, had generally something to interest or to 
amuse — very often something that moved the 


AGNES SOREL. 


29 


feelings; but more generally something having 
a touch of the burlesque in it, exciting a smile, 
tliough seldom driving one into a laugh. 

Doubtless the same was the case on the morn- 
ing when the Duke of Orleans and his household 
set out from his brother’s capital ; for the Paris- 
ians have always been Parisians, and that word, 
as far as history shows us, has always meant one 
thing. It was very early in the morning, too. 
The sun hardly tipped the towers of Notre Dame, 
or gilded the darker and more sombre masses of 
the Chdtelet. The most matutinal classes — the 
gatherers of rags; the unhappy beings who pil- 
fered daily from unfastened doors and open en- 
tries; the peasants coming into market; the la- 
borers going out with ax or shovel; even the 
roasters of chestnuts (coffee was then unknown) 
were all astir, and many a merry cry to wake 
slumbering cooks and purveyors was heard along 
the streets of the metropolis. Always cheerful 
except when ferocious, the population of Paris 
was that day in gayer mood than usual, for the 
news that a reconciliation had taken place be- 
tween the Dukes of Orleans and Burgundy, whose 
feuds had become wearisome as well as detri- 
mental, had spread far and wide during the pre- 
ceding evening, and men anticipated prosperous 
and peaceful times, after a long period of turbu- 
lence and disaster. Seldom had the Duke of 
Orleans gone forth from the metropolis in such 
peaceful array. Sometimes he had galloped out 
in haste with a small body of attendants, hardly 
enough in number to protect his person ; some- 
times he had marched forward in warlike guise, 
to do battle with the enemy. But now he pro- 
ceeded quietly in a horse-litter, feeling himself 
neither very well nor very ill. His saddle-horse, 
some pages, squires, and a few men-at-arms fol- 
lowed close, and the rest of the attendants, who 
had been selected to go with him, came after in 
little groups as they mounted, two or three at a 
time. The whole cavalcade did not amount to 
more than fifty persons — no great retinue for a 
prince of those days ; but yet, in its straggling 
disorder, it made a pretty long line through the 
streets, and excited a good deal of attention in the 
multitude as it passed. But the distance to the 
gates was not great, and the whole party soon 
issued forth through the very narrow suburbs 
which then surrounded the city, into the open 
country beyond. To tell the truth, though the 
whole land was covered with the white garment- 
ure of winter, it was a great relief to J ean Cha- 
rost to find his sight no longer bounded by stone 
walls, and his chest no longer oppressed by the 
heavy air of a great city. The sun sparkling on 
the snow, the branches of the trees incrusted with 
frost, the clear blue sky without a cloud, the riv- 
er bridged with its own congealed waters, all re- 
minded him of early days and happy hours, and 
filled his mind with the memory of rejoicing. 

One or two of the elder and superior officers 
of the duke’s household had mounted at the same 
time with himself, and were riding along close 
by him. But there was no sympathetic tie be- 
tween them ; they were old, and he was young; 
they were hackneyed in courts, and he was in- 
experienced ; they were accustomed to all the 
doings of the household in which he dwelt, and 
to him every thing was fresh and new. Thus 
they soon gathered apart, as it were, though they 
were perfectly courteous and polite to the duke’s 
new secretary ; for by this time he was known 
to all the attendants in that capacity, and the 


moi’e politic heads shrewdly calculated upon his 
acquiring, sooner or later, considerable influence 
with their princely master. But they talked 
among themselves of things they knew and un- 
derstood, and of which he was utterly ignorant; 
so that he was suffered to ride on with uninter- 
rupted thoughts, enjoying the wintery beauty of 
the landscape, while they conversed of what had 
happened at St. Denis, or of the skirmish at Toul, 
or of the march into Aquitaine, or gossiped a lit- 
tle scandal of Madame De * and Monsieur 
De * * * 

Insensibly the young man dropped behind, 
and might be said to be riding alone, when an 
elderly man, in the habit of a priest, ambled 
up to his side on a sleek, well-fed mule. His 
hair was very white, and his countenance calm 
and benignant ; but there was no very intellect- 
ual expression in his face, and one might have 
felt inclined to pronounce him, at the first glance, 
a very simple, good man, with more rectitude 
than wit, more piety than learning. There would 
have been some mistake in this, for Jean Charost 
soon found that he had read much, and studied 
earnestly, supplying by perseverance and labor 
all that was wanting in acuteness. 

“ Good morning, my son,” said the old man, 
in a frank and familiar tone. “ I believe I am 
speaking to Monsieur De Brecy, am I not? his 
highness’s secretary.” 

“ The same, sir,” replied Jean Charost ; 
“ though I have not been long in that office.” 

“ I know, I know,” replied the good priest. 
“You were commended to his favor by my good 
friend Jacques Cceur. I was absent from the 
palace till last night, or I would have seen you 
before. I am his highness’s chaplain and direct- 
or — would to Heaven I could direct him right; 
but these great men — ” 

There he stopped, as if feeling himself tread- 
ing upon dangerous ground, and a pause ensued ; 
for Jean Charost gave him no encouragement to 
go on in any discussion of the duke’s doings, of 
which probably he knew as much as his con- 
fessor, without any great amount of information 
either. 

The priest continued to jog on by his side, 
however, turning his head very frequently, as if 
afraid of being pursued by something. Once he 
muttered to himself, “ I do believe he is coming 
on and then added, a moment after, in a re- 
lieved tone, “ No, it is Lomelini.” 

They had not ridden far, after this exclamation, 
when they were joined by the maltre d’hotel, 
who seemed on exceedingly good terms with the 
chaplain, and rather in a meny mood. “Ah, 
Father Peter !” he exclaimed; “you passed me 
in such haste, you would neither see nor hear 
me. What was it lent wings to your mule ?” 

“ Oh, that fool, that fool !” cried the good fa- 
ther. “He has got on a black cloak like yours, 
signor — stolen it from some one, I dare say — and 
he declares he is a doctor of the university, and 
must needs chop logic with me.” 

“ What was his thesis ?” asked Lomelini, laugh- 
ing heartily. “ He is grand at an argument, I 
know ; and I have often heard him declare that 
he likes to spoil a doctor of divinity.” 

“ It was no thesis at all,” answered Father Pe- 
ter. “ He propounded a question fbr debate, 
and asked me which of the seven capital sins 
was the most capital. I told him they were all 
equally heinous; but he contended W^at could not 
be, and said he would prove it by a proposition 


30 


AGNES SOREL. 


divided into three parts and three members, each 
part divided into six points — ” 

“ Let us hear,” cried Lomelini. ‘‘ Doubtless 
his parts and points were very amusing. Let us 
hear them, by all means.” 

Why, I did not stay to hear them myself,” 
replied Father Peter. He began by explaining 
and defining the seven capital sins; and fearing 
some greater scandal — for all the boys were roar- 
ing with laughter — I rode on and left him.” 

“Ah, father, father! He will say that he has 
defeated you in argument,” replied Lomelini; 
and then added, with a sly glance at Jean Cha 
rost, “ the sharpest weapon in combat with a 
grave man is a jest.” 

The good father looked quite distressed, as if 
to be defeated in argument by a fool were real- 
ly a serious disgrace. With the natural kind- 
liness of youth, Jean Charost felt for him, and, 
turning the conversation, proceeded to inquire of 
the maitre d’hotel who and what was the person 
who had driven the good chaplain so rapidly 
from the field. 

“ Oh, you will become well acquainted with 
him by-and-by, my son,” answered Lomelini, 
who still assumed a sort of paternal and patron- 
izing air toward the young secretary. “ They 
call him the Seigneur Andre in the household, 
and his lordship makes himself known to every 
body — sometimes not very pleasantly. He is 
merely the duke’s fool, however, kept more for 
amusement than for service, and more for fashion 
even than amusement ; for at bottom he is a dull 
fellow ; but he contrives occasionally to stir up 
the choler of the old gentlemen, and, when the 
duke is in a gay burner, makes him laugh with 
their anger.” 

“ To be angry with a fool is to show one’s self 
little better than a fool, methinks,” answered 
Jean Charost ; but Lomelini shook his head, with 
his usual quiet smile, saying, “ Do not be too 
sure that he will not provoke you. Monsieur De 
Brecy. He has a vast fund of malice, though 
no great fund of wit, and, as you may see, can 
contrive to torment very grave and reverend 
personages. I promised you a hint from time 
to time, and one may not be thrown away in re- 
gard to Seigneur Andre. There are two or three 
ways of dealing with him which are sure to 
put him down. First, the way which Monsieur 
Blaize takes : never to speak to him at all. When 
he addresses any of his witticisms to our good 
friend. Monsieur Blaize stares quietly in his face, 
as if he spoke to him in an unknown tongue, and 
takes care not to give him a single word as a 
peg to hang a rejoinder upon. Another way is 
to break his head, if he be over saucy, for he is 
mighty careful of his person, and has never at- 
tacked young Juvenel de Royans sdnee he cuffed 
him one morning to his heart’s content. He has 
no reverence for any thing, indeeo . but punish- 
ment and fisticuffs. He ventureo* at first to 
break his jests on me, for whom, thoegh a very 
humble personage, his highness’s officei-B gener- 
ally have some respect.” 

“ May I ask how you put a stop to this prac- 
tice?” asked Jean Charost. 

“ Oh, very easily,” replied the maitre d’hotel. 

I listened to all he had to say quietly, answer- 
ed him as best I might, a little to the amusement 
of the by-standers, and did not fare altogether ill 
in the encounter; but Seigneur Andre found 
his levrie for supper somewhat scanty and poor 
that night. He had a small loaf of brown 


bread, a pickled herring, and some very sour 
wine. Though it was all in order, and he had 
wine, fish, and bread, according to the regula- 
tions of the household for evening levries, he 
thought fit to complain to the master-cook. The 
cook told him that all his orders were taken 
from me. He did not know what to make oi 
this, but was very peaceable for a day or twe 
afterward. Then he forgot his lesson, and began 
his impertinence again. He had another dose 
that night of brown bread, salt herring, and vin- 
egar, and it made so deep an impression on his 
mind that he has not forgotten it yet.” 

“ Well, I do think it is impious,” said Father 
Peter, in a tone of melancholy gravity. “ I do, 
indeed.” 

“ What, to give a fool a pickled herring as a 
sort of corrective of bad humors?” asked Lome 
lini. 

“ No, no,” replied the chaplain, peevishly 
“ But to keep such poor, benighted creatures in 
great houses for the purpose of extracting mer- 
riment from their infirmities. It is making a 
mockery of the chastisement of God.” 

“ Pooh, pooh,” said Lomelini. “ What can 
you do with them ? If you do not keep them in 
great houses, you would be obliged to shut them 
up in little ones ; and, I will answer for it. Seign- 
eur Andre would rather be kept as a fool in the 
palace of the Duke of Orleans than pent up as a 
madman in the hospitals. But here he comes to 
answer for himself.” 

“ Then I won’t stay to hear him,” cried the 
chaplain, putting his mule into a quicker pace, 
and riding on after the litter of the Duke of Or- 
leans, which was not above two hundred yards 
in advance. 

“ There he goes,” cried Signor LomelinL 
“ Poor man ! this fool is a complete bugbear to 
him. To Father Peter he is like a gnat, or a 
great fly, which keeps buzzing about our ears all 
night, and gives us neither peace nor rest.” 

As he spoke, the personage who had been so 
long the subject of their conversation rode up, 
presenting to the eyes of Jean Charost a very dif- 
ferent sort of man from that which he had ex- 
pected to see, and, in truth, a very different per- 
sonage altogether from the poetical idea of the 
jester which has been furnished to us by Shaks- 
peare and others. Seigneur Andre, indeed, was 
not one of the most famous of his class, and he 
has neither been embalmed in fiction nor enrolled 
in history. The exceptions I believe, in truth, 
have been taken generally for the types, and if 
we could trace the sayings and doings of all the 
jesters downward from the days of Charlemagne, 
we should find that nine out of ten were very 
dull people indeed. His lordship was a fat, 
gross-looking man of the middle age, with a 
countenance expressive of a good deal of sensu- 
ality — dull and heavy-looking, with a nose glow- 
ing with wine; bushy, overhanging eyebrows, 
and a fat, liquorish under lip. His stomach was 
large and protuberant, and his legs short; but 
still he rode his horse with a good, firm seat, 
though with what seemed to the eyes of Jean 
Charost a good deal of affected awkwardness of 
manner. There was an expression of fun and 
joviality about his face, it is true, which was a 
very good precursor to a joke, and, like the sauce 
of a French cook’s composing, which often give* 
zest to a very insipid morsel, it made many a 
dull jest pass for wit. His eye, indeed, had an 
occasional fire in it, wild, wandering, mysterious, 


AGNES 

lighted up and going out on a sudden, which to 
a physician might probably have indicated the 
existence of some degree of mental derangement, 
but which, with ordinary persons, served at once 
to excite and puzzle curiosity. 

“ Ah, reverend signor,” he exclaimed, as he 
pulled up his horse by Lomelini’s side, “ I am 
glad to find you so far in advance. It betokens 
that all good things of life will be provided for 
— that we shall not have to wait three hours at 
Juvisy for dinner, nor be treated with goat’s flesh 
and rye bread, sour wine and stale salad.” 

That depends upon circumstances. Seigneur 
Andr6,” replied Lomelini. “That his highness 
shall have a good dinner, I have provided for; 
but, good faith, the household must look out for 
themselves. In any other weather you would 
find eggs enough, and the water is generally ex- 
cellent, but now it is frozen. But let me intro- 
duce you to Monsieur De Brecy, his highness’s 
secretary.” 

“Ha! I kiss his fingers,” died the jester. “I 
asked for him all yesterday, hearing of his ad- 
vent, but was not blessed with his presence. 
They told me he was in the nursery, and verily 
he seems a blessed babe. May I inquire how 
old you are. Signor De Brecy?” 

“ Like yourself. Seigneur Andre,” replied Jean 
Charost, with a smile ; “ old enough to be wiser.” 

“ Marvelous well answered I” exclaimed the 
jester. “ The dear infant is a prodigy ! Did 
you ever see any thing like that?” he continued, 
throwing back his black cloak, and exhibiting his 
large stomach, dressed in his party-colored gar- 
ments, almost resting on the saddle-bow. 

“Yes, often,” answered Jean Charost. “I 
have seen it in men too lazy to keep down the 
flesh, too fond of good things to refrain from 
what is killing them, and too dull in the brain to 
let the wit ever wear the body.” 

A sort of wild, angry fire came up in the jest- 
err’s face, and he answered, “ Let me tell you 
there is more wit in that stomach than ever you 
can digest.” 

“Perhaps so,” answered Jean Charost. “I 
doubt not in the least you have more brain under 
your belt than under your cap ; but it is some- 
what soft, I should think, in both places.” 

Signor Lomelini laughed, but at the same time 
made a sign to his young companion to forbear, 
saying, in a low tone, “ He won’t forgive you 
easily, already. Don’t provoke him further. 
Here we are coming to that accursed hill of Ju- 
visy, Seigneur Andre. Don’t you see the town 
lying down there, like an egg in the nest of a 
long-tailed titmouse?” 

“ Or like a bit of sugar left at the bottom of a 
bowl of mulled wine,” replied the jester. “ But, 
be it egg or be it sugar, the horses of his high- 
ness seem inclined to get at it very fast.” 

His words first called the attention of both 
Lomelini and Jean Charost to what was going 
on before them, and the latter perceived with 
dismay that the horses in the litter — a curious 
and ill-contrived sort of vehicle — which had been 
going very slowly till they reached the top of the 
high hill of Juvisy, had begun to trot, and then 
to canter, and were now in high course toward a 
full gallop. The man who drove them, usually 
walking at the side, was now running after them 
as fast as he could go, and apparently shouting 
to them to stop, though his words were as un- 
heeded by the horses as unheard by Jean Cha- 
rost. 


SOREL. 31 

I “ Had we not better ride on and help ?” asked 
the young gentleman, eagerly. 

Lomelini shrugged his shoulders, replying, 
with a sort of fatalism hardly less ordinary in 
Italians than in Turks, “ What will be, will be;” 
and the jester answered, “ Good faith ! though 
they call me fool, yet I have as much regard for 
my skin as any of them ; so I shall not trot down 
the hill.” 

Jean Charost hardly heard the end of the sen- 
tence, for he saw that the horses of the litter 
were accelerating their pace at every instant, 
and he feared that some serious accident would 
happen. The duke was seen at the same mo- 
ment to put forth his head, calling sharply to the 
driver, and the young secretary, without more 
ado, urged his horse on at the risk of his own 
neck, and, taking a little circuit which the broad- 
ness of the road permitted, tried to reach the 
front horse of the litter without scaring him into 
reater speed. He passed two groups of the 
uke’s attendants before he came near the vehi- 
cle, but all seemed to take as much or as little 
interest in their master’s safety as Lomelini and 
the jester, uttering, as the young man passed, 
some wild exclamations of alarm at the duke’s 
peril, but taking no means on earth to avert it. 

Jean Charost did not pause or stop to inquire, 
however, but dashed on, passed the litter, and 
got in front of the horses just at the moment that 
one of them stumbled and fell. 

There was a steep, precipitous descent over 
the hillside, as the old road ran, down which 
there was the greatest possible risk of the ve- 
hicle being thrown ; but, luckily, one of the shafts 
broke, and Jean Charost was in time to prevent 
the horse from doing any further damage, as he 
sprang up from his bleeding knees. 

While the young man, jumping from the sad- 
dle, held the horses tight by the bridle, the driver 
and half a dozen attendants hurried up and as- 
sisted the prince to alight. Their faces were 
now pale and anxious enough; but the counte- 
nance of the duke himself was as calm and tran- 
quil as if he had encountered no danger. Lome- 
lini and the jester were soon upon the spot ; and 
the latter thought fit to remark, with a sagacious 
air, that haste spoiled speed. “ Your highness 
went too fast,” he said ; “ and this young gentle- 
man went faster still. You were likely to be at 
the bottom of the hill of Juvisy before you de- 
sired it, and he had nearly sent you thither sooner 
still in trying to stop you.” 

“ You are mistaken. Seigneur Andre,” said the 
duke, gravely. “ The horse fell before he touched 
it ; and even had it not been so, I would always 
rather see too much zeal than too little. He 
came in time, however, to prevent the litter go- 
ing over.” 

Two of the squires instantly led forward horses 
for the prince to ride, as the litter, in its damaged 
state, was no longer serviceable. But the duke 
replied, “ No, I will walk. Give me your arm, 
De Brecy ; it is but a step now.” 

The little accident which had occurred un- 
doubtedly served to confirm Jean Charost in 
the favor of the Duke of Orleans ; but, at the 
same time, it made him a host of enemies. The 
tenants of a wasp’s nest are probably not half as 
malicious as the household of a great man. The 
words of the jester had given them their cue, 
and the report ran through all the little caval- , 
cade that Jean Charost had thrown the horse 
down in attempting to stop it. 


32 


AGNES SOREL. 


CHAPTER XII. 

There are periods in the life of every man 
during which accidents, misadventures, annoy- 
ances even, if they be not of too great magnitude, 
are of service to him. When, from within or from 
without, some dark vapor has risen up, clouding 
the sunlight, and casting the soul into darkness — 
when remorse, or despair, or bitter disappoint- 
ment, or satiety, or the dark pall of grief, has over- 
shadowed all things, and left us in a sort of twi- 
light, where we see every surrounding object in 
gloom, we bless the gale, even though it be vio- 
lent, that arises to sweep the tempest-cloud from 
our sky. Still greater is the relief when any 
thing of a gentler and happier kind comes along 
with the breeze that dispels the mists and dark- 
ness, like a sun-gleam through a storm ; and the 
little accident which had occurred, and the es- 
cape from danger, did a great deal to rouse the 
Duke of Orleans from a sort of apathetic heavi- 
ness which had hung upon him for the last two 
or three days. 

Dinner had been prepared for him at the great 
inn at Juvisy ; but, with one of those whims in 
which high and mighty princes indulged fre- 
quently in those days, he paused before the gates 
of the old abbey, on the left hand side of the 
road, saying, in a low tone, to Jean Charost, but 
with a gay smile, “We will go in and dine with 
the good fathers. They are somewhat famous for 
their cheer, and it must be about the dinner hour.” 

The little crowd of attendants had followed 
slowly behind their princely master, leaving the 
distance of a few paces between him and them, 
for reverence’ sake ; and he now beckoned up 
Lomelini, and told him to go forward and let the 
household dine, adding, “We will dine at the 
abbey.” 

“ How many shall remain with your high- 
ness?” asked Lomelini, with a profound bow. 

“ None, signor,” replied the duke ; “ none but 
Monsieur De Brecy. Go on — I would be incog- 
nito ;” and turning up the path, he struck the bell 
at the gates with the iron hammer that hung be- 
side it. 

“ Now, De Brecy,” he said, in a light and care- 
less tone, very different from any his young com- 
panion had ever heard him use before, “ here 
we forget our names and dignities. I am Louis 
Valois, and you Jean Charost, and there are no 
titles of honor between us. Some of the good 
friars may have seen me, and perhaps know me ; 
but they will take the hint, and forget all about 
me till I am gone. I would fain see them with- 
out their frocks for awhile. It will serve to di- 
vert my thoughts from sadder things.” 

With a slow and faltering step, and mumbling 
something, apparently not very pleasant, as he 
came, an old monk walked down to the grille 
or iron gate of the convent, with the keys in his 
hand indeed, but an evident determination not 
to use them, except in case of necessity. Seeing 
two strangers standing at the gate, he first spoke 
with them through the bars, and it required some 
persuasion to induce him to open and let them 
pass, although, to say sooth, the duke’s announce- 
ment that he came to ask the hospitality of the 
refectoi'y, was spoken more as a command than 
a petition, notwithstanding the air of easy famil- 
iarity which he sought to give it. 

’ “ Well, well ; come in,” he said, at length ; “ I 

have nothing to do with it, but to open and shut 
the door. The people within will tell you wheth- 


er you can eat with them or not. They eat 
enough themselves, God wot, and drink too ; but 
they are not over-fond of sharing with those they 
don’t know, except through the buttery hole or 
the east wicket ; and there it is only what they 
can’t eat themselves. Ay, we had different times 
of it when Abbot Jerome was alive.” 

Before the long fit of grumbling was at an end, 
the Duke of Orleans and his young companion 
were at the inner door of the building ; and a 
little bell, ringing from a distant corner, gave no- 
tice that the mid-day meal of the monks was 
about to begin. 

“Come along — come along, Jean,” said the 
duke, seeming to participate in the eagerness 
with which several monks were hurrying along 
in one direction ; “ they say the end of a feast 
is better than the beginning of a fray ; but, to say 
truth, the beginning is the best part of either.” 

On they went ; no one stopped them — no one 
said a word to them. The impulse of a very vo- 
racious appetite was upon the great body of the 
monks, and deprived them of all inclination to 
question the strangers, till they were actually at 
the door of the refectory, where a burly, bare- 
footed fellow barred the way, and demanded 
what they wanted. “ A dinner,” answered the 
Duke of Orleans, wdth a laugh. “ You are hos- 
pitable friars, are you not?” 

The man gazed at him for a moment without 
reply, but with a very curious expression of 
countenance, ran his eye over the duke’s apparel, 
which, though by no means very splendid, was 
marked by all the peculiar fopperies of high sta- 
tion ; then gave a glance at Jean Charost, and then 
replied, in a much altered tone, “We are, sir. 
But it so happens that to-day my lord abbot has 
visitors who dine here. Doubtless he will not 
refuse you hospitality, if you let him know who it 
is demands it. He has with him Monsieur and 
Madame Giac, and their train, high persons at the 
court of Burgundy. Who shall I say are here ?” 

“ Two poor simple gentlemen in need of a din- 
ner,” replied the duke, in acareless tone — “Louis 
Valois and Jean Charost by name. But make 
haste, good brother, or the pottage will be cold.” 

The man retired into the refectory, the door 
of which was continually opening and shutting 
as the monks passed in ; and Jean Charost, who 
stood a little to the right of the duke, could see 
the monk hurry forward toward a gay party al- 
ready seated at the head of one of the long tables, 
with the abbot in the midst. 

He returned in a few seconds with another 
monk, and ushered the duke and his young com- 
panion straight up to the table of the abbot, an 
elderly man of jovial aspect, who seemed a little 
confused and embarrassed. He rose, sat down 
again, rose once more, and advanced a step or 
two. 

The Duke of Orleans met him half way with 
a meaning smile, and a few words passed in a 
low tone, the import of which Jean Charost did 
not hear. The duke, however', immediately 
after, moved to a vacant seat some way down 
the table, and beckoned Jean Charost to take a 
place beside him. The young secretary obey- 
ed, and had a full opportunity, before a some- 
what long grace was ended, of scanning the faces 
of the guests who sat above him. 

Orr the abbot’s right hand was a gentleman of 
some forty years of age, gayly dressed, but of a 
countenance by no means prepossessing, cold, 
calculating, yet harsh; and next to him was 


AGNES SOREL. 


33 


placed a young girl of some thirteen or fourteen 
years of age, not at that time particularly remark- 
able for her beauty, but yet with an expression 
of countenance which, once seen, was not easily 
to be forgotten. That expression is difficult to 
be described, but it possessed that which, as far 
as we can judge from very poor and not veiy 
certain portraits, was much wanting in the coun- 
tenances. of most Fi’ench women of the day. 
There was soul in it — a look blending thought 
and feeling — with much firmness and decision 
even about the small, beautiful mouth, but a 
world of soft tenderness in the eyes. 

On the other side of the abbot sat a gay and 
beautiful lady, in the early prime of life, with her 
face beaming with witching smiles ; and Jean 
Charost could not help thinking he saw a very 
meaning glance pass between the Duke of Or- 
leans and herself. No one at the table, indeed, 
openly recognized the prince; and, although the 
young secretary had little doubt that his royal 
master was known to more than one there pres- 
ent, it was clear the great body of the monks 
were ignorant that he was among them. 

The fare upon the table did not by any means 
belie the reputation of the convent. Delicate 
meats, well cooked; fish in abundance, and of 
v'arious kinds; game of every sort the country 
produced; and wine of exceedingly delicate fla- 
vor, showed how completely field, forest, tank, 
and vineyard were laid under tribute by the good 
friars of Juvisy. Nor did the monks seem to 
mortify their tongues more than the rest of their 
bodies. Merriment, revelry — sometimes wit, 
sometimes buffoonery — and conversation, often 
profane, and often obscene, ran along the table 
without any show of reverence for ears that 
might be listening. The young man had heard 
of such things, but had hardly believed the tale; 
and not a little scandalized was he, in his sim- 
plicity, at all he saw and heard. That which 
confounded him more than all the rest, however, 
was the demeanor of the Duke of Orleans. He 
did not know how often painful feelings and sen- 
sations take refuge in things the most opposite to 
themselves — how grief will strive to drown itself 
in the flood of revelry — how men strive to sweet- 
en the cup of pain with the wild honey-drops of 
pleasure. From the first moment of his intro- 
duction to the duke up to that hour, he had 
seen him under but one aspect. He had been 
grave, sad, thoughtful, gloomy. Health itself had 
seemed affected by some secret sorrow ; and 
now every thing was changed in a moment. He 
mingled gayly, lightly in the conversation, gave 
back jest for jest with flashing repartee, en- 
couraged and shared in the revelry arciund him, 
and drank liberally, although there was a glow- 
ing spot in his cheek which seemed to say there 
was a fire within which wanted no such feeding. 

The characters around would bear a long 
description ; for monastic life — begun generally 
when habits of thought were fixed — had not the 
power ascribed by a great orator to education, 
of dissolving the original characters of men, and 
recrystallizing them in a different form. At one 
part of the table there was the rude broad jester, 
rolling his fat body within his wide gown, and 
laughing riotously at his own jokes. At a little 
disfance sat the keen bright satirist, full of flashes 
of wit and sarcasm, but as fond of earthly pleas- 
ures as all the rest ; and a little nearer was the 
man of sly quiet humor, as grave as a judge him- 
self, but causing all around him to roar with 


laughter. The abbot, overflowing with the good 
things of this life, and enjoying them still with 
undiminished powers, notwithstanding the sixty 
years and more which had passed over his head, 
was evidently well accustomed to the somewhat 
irreverent demeanor of his refectory, and proba- 
bly might not have relished his dinner without 
the zest of its jokes. Certain it is, at all events, 
though his own parlor was a more comfortable 
room, and universal custom justified his dining 
in solitude, he was seldom absent at the hour of 
dinnei’, and only abstained from being present at 
supper likewise, lest he should hear and see 
more than could be well passed over in safety. 

When the meal was at an end, however, the 
abbot rose, and, inviting his lay guests to his 
own particular apartments, left his monks to con- 
duct the exercises of the afternoon as they might 
think fit. With his cross-bearer before him, he 
led the way, followed by the rest in the order 
which the narrowness of the passages compelled 
them to take; and Jean Charost found himself 
coupled, for the time, with the young girl he had 
seen on the opposite side of the table. He was 
too much of a Frenchman to hesitate for a mo- 
ment in addressing her ; for, in that country, si- 
lence in a woman’s society is generally supposed 
to proceed either from awkwardness or rude- 
ness. She answered with as little constraint; 
and they were in the full flow of conversation 
when they entered a well-tapestried room, which, 
though large in itself, seemed small after the great 
hall of the refectory. 

The abbot, and the nobleman who had sat by 
his side, in whom Jean Charost recognized the 
Monsieur De Giac whom he had seen by torch- 
light in the streets of Paris, were already talk- 
ing to each other with some eagerness, while the 
Duke of Orleans followed a step or two behind, 
conversing in low tones with the beautiful lady 
who had sat upon the abbot’s other hand. 

Gay and light seemed their conference; and 
both laughed, and both smiled, and both whis- 
pered, but not apparently from any reverence for 
the persons or place around them. But no one 
took any notice. Monsieur De Giac was very 
blind to his wife’s coquetry, and the abbot was 
well accustomed to the feat of shutting his eyes 
without dropping his eyelids. Nay, he seemed 
to think the merriment hardly sufficient for the 
occasion ; for he ordered more wines to be 
brought, and those the most choice and delicate 
of his cellai’, with various preserved fruits, gently 
to stimulate the throat to deeper potations. 

“ Not very reverend,” said Jean Charost, in 
answer to some observation of the young lady, 
shortly after they entered, while the rest remain- 
ed scattered about in different groups. “ I won- 
der if every monastery throughout France is like 
this.” 

“ Very like, indeed,” answered his fair com- 
panion, with a smile. “ Surely this is not the 
first religious house you have ever visited.” 

“ The first of its kind,” replied Jean Charost; 
“ I have been often in the Black Friars at Bourges, 
but their rule is somewhat more austere, or more 
austerely practiced.” 

“Poor people,” said the girl. “It is to be 
hoped there is a heaven, for their sakes. These 
good folks seem to think themselves well enoug^i 
where they are, without going further. But in 
sorry truth, all monasteries are very much like 
this — those that I have seen, at least.” 

“And nunneries?” asked Jean Charost. 


34 


AGNES SOREL. 


“ Somewhat better,” she answered, with a sigh. 

“ Whatever faults women may have, they are not 
such coarse ones as we have seen here to-night; 
but I know not much about them, for I have 
been long enough in one only to judge of it 
rightly ; and now I feel like a bird with its prison 
doors unclosed, because I am going to join the 
court of the Queen of Anjou : that does not speak 
ill of the nunnery, methinks. Who knows, if 
they reveled as loud and high there as here, but 
I might have loved to remain.” 

“ I think not,” answered her young compan- 
ion, “ if I may judge by your face at dinner. 
You seemed not to smile on the revels of the 
monks.” 

“ They made my head ache,” answered the 
girl; and then added, abruptly, “so you are an 
observer of faces, are you ? What think you of 
that face speaking with the abbot?” 

“ Nay, he may be your father, brother, or any 
near relation,” answered Jean Charost. “ I shall 
not speak till I know more.” 

"Oh, he is nothing to me,” replied the girl. 
“He is my noble Lord of Giac, who does me the 
great honor, with my lady, his wife, of conveying 
me to Beaugency, where we shall overtake the 
Queen of Anjou. His face would not curdle milk, 
nor turn wine sour ; but yet there is something 
in it not of honey exactly.” 

" He seems to leave all the honey to his fair 
lady,” replied Jean Charost. 

“ Yes, to catch flies with,” replied the girl ; and 
then she added, in a lower tone, “ and he is the 
spider to eat them.” 

The wine and the preserved fruits had by this 
time been placed upon a large marble table in 
the centre of the hall ; and a fair sight they made, ! 
with the silver flagons, and the gold and jeweled 
cups, spread out upon that white expanse, be- | 
neath the gray and fretted arches overhead, j 
while on the several groups around in their gay | 
apparel, and the abbot in his robes, standing by 
the table, with a serving brother at his side, the 
mauy-colored light shone strongly through the 
window of painted glass. 

“ Here’s to you, noble sir, whom I am to call 
Louis Valois, and to your young fiiend, Jean Cha- 
rost,” said the abbot, bowing to the duke, and 
raising a cup he had just filled. “ I pray you do 
me justice in this excellent wine of Nuits.” 

“ 1 will but sip, my lord,” replied the duke, 
taking up a cup. “ I have drank enough already 
somewhat to heat me.” 

“ Nay, nay, good gentleman,” cried the fair lady 
with whom he had been talking, “let me fill 
for you! Drink fair with the lord abbot, for 
very shame, or I will inform the Duke of Or- 
leans, who passes here, they say, to-day.” 

The last words were uttered with a meaning 
smile; but the duke let her pour the wine out 
for him, drank it down, and then, with a graceful 
inclination to the company, took a step toward 
the door, saying, “ The Duke of Orleans has gone 
by, madam. At least, his train passed us while 
we were at the gates. My lord abbot, I give you 
a thousand thanks for your hospitality. Ladies 
all, farewell;” and then passing Madame De 
Giac, he added, in a whisper, which reached, 
however, the ears of Jean Charost who was fol- 
lowing, “ In Paris, then.” 

The lady made no answer with her lips; but 
her eyes spoke sufficiently, and to the thoughts 
of Jean Charost somewhat too much. 

The serving brother opened the door of the 


parlor for the guests to pass out, and he had not 
yet closed it, when the name of the Duke of Or- 
leans was repeated from more than one voice 
within, and a merry peal of laughter followed. 

The duke hastened his steps, holding the arm 
of his young companion; and though the smile 
still lingered on his lips for awhile, yet before 
they had reached the gate of the convent, it had 
passed away. Gradually he fell into a fit of deep 
thought, which lasted till they nearly descended 
to Juvisy. Then, however, he roused himself, 
and said, with an abrupt laugh, “ I sometimes 
' think men of pleasure are mad, De Brecy.” 

“ I think so too, your highness,” replied Jean 
Charost. 

The duke started, and looked suddenly in his 
face; but all was calm and simple there; and, 
after a moment’s silence, the prince rejoined, 
“ Too true, my young friend ; too true ! A lucid 
interval often comes upon them, full of high pur- 
poses and good resolves : 'they see light, and truth, 
and reality for a few short hours, when suddenly 
some accident — some trifle brings the fit again, 
and all is darkness and delusion, delirious dreams, 

! and actions of a madman. I have heard of a 
I bridge built of broken porcelain ; and such is the 
' life of a man of pleasure. The bridge over which 
his course lies, from time to eternity, is built of 
I broken resolutions, and himself the architect.” 

“ A frail structure, my lord, by which to reach 
heaven,” replied Jean Charost, “ and methinks 
some strong beams across would make us surer 
of even reaching earthly happiness.” 
i “ Where can one find them ?” asked the duke. 

“ In a strong will,” answered Jean Charost. 

The duke mused for a moment or two, and 
then suddenly changed the conversation, saying. 
“ Who was the girl you were speaking with ?” 

“ In truth, your highness, I do not know,” re- 
plied Jean Charost. “ She said that she was 
going, under the escort of Monsieur and Madame 
De Giac, to Beaugency,” 

“ Oh, then, I know,” replied the duke. “ It 
is the fair Agnes, whom my good aunt talked 
about. They say she has a wit quite beyond her 
years. Did you find it so ?” 

“ I can not tell,” replied Jean Charost, “for I 
do not know her age. She seemed to me quite a 
girl ; and yet spoke like one who thought much 
and deeply.” 

“You were well matched,” said the duke, gay- 
ly; and, at the same moment, some of his attend- 
ants came up, and the conversation stopped for 
the time. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The cool twilight of a fine winter’s eveninit 
filled the air as the train of the Duke of Orleans 
approached his chateau of Beaute. Standing 
on a high bank, with the river flowing in sighq 
and catching the last rosy rays, which still lin- 
gered in the sky after the sun was set, the house 
presented a grand, rather than a graceful appear- 
ance, though it was from the combination of 
beautiful forms and rich decoration with the de- 
fensive strength absolutely requisite in all coun- 
try mansions at that day, that it derived its name 
of Beaute. The litter had been repaii'ed at Ju- 
visy, and the Duke of Orleans had taken posses- 
sion of it again ; but as the cavalcade wound up 
the ascent toward the castle, the prince put his 
head out, and ordered one of the nearest attend- 
ants to call Lomelini to him. 


AGNES SOREL. 


35 


“ I am ill, Lomeliiii,” he said, as soon as the 
maitre d’hotel I’ode up; “ I am ill. Go forward 
and see that my bed-cliamber is prepared.” 

“ Had I not better send back for your high- 
ness’s chirurgeon?” asked Lomelini. “ ’Tis a 
pity he was left behind in Paris.” 

“ No, no,” replied the prince; “let him stay 
whei'e he is. He overwhelms me wdth his talk 
of phlebotomy and humors, his calculations of 
the moon, and his caption of fortunate hours. 
’Tis but a little sickness that will pass. Besides, 
there is the man at Corbeil. He can let blood, 
or compound a cooling potion.” 

As soon as the cavalcade had entered the court- 
yard of the chateau, the duke was assisted from 
his litter, and retired at once to his chamber, 
leaning upon the arm of Lomelini, who was all 
attention and humble devotion. The rest of the 
party then scattered in different directions, most 
of those present knowing well where to betake 
themselves, and each seeking the dwelling-place 
to which he was accustomed. Jean Charost, 
however, had no notion where he was to lodge, 
and now, for the first time, came into play the 
abilities of his new servant. Marlin Grille. His 
horses were stabled in a minute — whether in the 
right place or not, Martin stopped not to inquire 
— and, the moment that was done, divining well 
the embarrassment of an inexperienced master, 
the good man darted hither and thither, acquir- 
ing very rapidly, from the different varlets and 
pages, a vast amount of information regarding the 
chateau and its customs. 

He found Jean Charost walking up and down 
a large hall, which opened directly, without any 
vestibule, from the principal door of entrance, 
and plunged so deeply was he in meditation, that 
he seemed to see none of the persons who were 
passing busily to and fro ai-ound him. The rev- 
ery was deep, and something more: it was not 
altogether pleasant. /Who, in tlie cares and anx- 
ieties of mature life, does not sometimes pause 
and look back wistfully to the calmer days of 
childhood, decking them with fanciful memories 
of joys and sports, and burying in forgetfulness 
the troubles and sorrows which seemed severe 
at the time^ /The two spirits that are in man, in- 

deed, never exercise their influence more strong- 
ly in opposition than in prompting the desire for 
peace, and the eagerness for action. 

Jean Charost was busy at the moment with 
the unprofitable, fruitless comparison of the con- 
dition in which he had lately lived and his pres- 
ent station. The calm and tranquil routine of 
ordinary business; the daily occupation, some- 
what monotonous, but without anxiety, or even 
expectation; the peaceful hours for study, for 
thought, or for exercise, when not engaged in 
the service of no very exacting master, acquired 
a new and extraordinary interest in his eyes now 
that ambition was gratified, and he appeared to be 
in the road to honor and success. It was not that 
he was tired of the Duke of Orleans’s service : it 
was not that he misappreciated the favors he re- 
ceived, or the kindness vvith which he hda been 
treated; but the look back or the look forward , 
makes a great difference in our estimate of events 
and circumstances, and he felt that full appreci- ^ 
ation of the past which nothing that is not past ; 
can altogether command. Yet, if he strove to 
fix upon any point in regard to which he had 
been di.sappointed, he found it difficult to do so. ; 
But there was something in the wliole which ere- j 
ated in his brea=it a general feeling of depression. 1 


; There was a sensation of anxiety, and doubt, and 
! suspicion in regard to all that surrounded him. 
j A dim soi’t of mist of uncertainty hung over the 
, whole, which, to his daylight-loving mind, was 
! very painfid. One half of what he saw or heard 
he did not comprehend. Men seemed to be 
speaking in a strange, unlearned language — to be 
acting a mystery, the secret of which would not 
be developed till near the end ; and he was pon- 
dering over all these things, and asking himself 
how he should act in the midst of them, when 
Martin Grille approached, and, in a low tone, 
j told him all that he had discovered, offering to 
' show him where the secretary’s apartments were 
situated. 

i “ But can I be sure that the same rooms are 
destined for me?” asked Jean Charost. 

“Take them, sir, take them,” answered Mar- 
tin Grille ; “ that is to say, if they are good, and 
suit you. The only quality that is not valued at 
a court is modesty. It is always better to seize 
I what you can get, and the difficulty of dispos- 
' sessing you, nine times out of ten, makes men 
leave you what you have taken. Signor Lome- 
lini is still with the duke; so that you can ask 
him no questions. You must be lodged some- 
where-, so you had better lodge yourself.” 

Jean Charost thought the advice was good, es- 
pecially as night had by this lime fallen, and a 
single cresset in the hall afforded the only light, 
except when some one passed by with a lanip 
in his hand. He followed Martin Grille, there- 
fore, and was just issuing forth, when Juvenel 
de Royans, and another young man of the same 
age, came in by the same door out of which he 
was going. At the sight of the young secretary, 
De Royans drew back with a look of affected 
reverence, and a low inclination of the head, and 
then burst into a loud laugh. Jean Charost gazed 
at him with a cold, unmoved look, expressive, 
perhaps, of surprise, but nothing else, and then 
passed on his way. 

“ Those gentlemen will bring themselves into 
trouble before they have done,” said Mariin 
Grille. “ That Monsieur De Royans is already 
deep in the bad books.” 

“ No deeper than he deserves,” answered Jean 
Charost. “ But perhaps they piay find they have 
made a mistake before they have done.” 

“ Ah, good sir, never quarrel with a courtier,” 
said the servant. “ They are like wary fencers, 

I and try to put a man in a passion in order to 
throw him off his guard. But here are your 
j rooms, at the end of this passage. That door 
is the back entrance to the duke’s apartments. 
The front is on the other corridor.” 

With some lingering still of doubt, Jean Cha- 
rost took possession of the rooms, which he found 
more convenient than those he had inhabited in 
Paris, and, by the aid of Martin Grille, all was 
speedily put in order. The hour of supper soon 
arrived, and, descending to the general table of 
the household, he found a place reserved for him 
by Monsieur Blaize, but a good deal of strange 
coldness in the manners of all around. Even the 
old icuyer himself vyas somewhat distant and re- 
served ; and it vvjas not till long afterward that 
Jean Charost discovered how much malice any 
marks of favor from a prince can excite, and to 
how much falsehood such malice may give birth. 
His attempt to stop the horses of the litter had 
been severely commented on, as an act of imper- 
tinent forwardness, by all those who ought to 
have done it themselves ; and they and every one 


36 


AGNES SOREL. 


else agreed, notwithstanding the duke’s own 
words, that the attempt had only served to throw 
one of the horses down. The only person who 
seemed cordial at the table was the good priest. 
Father Peter; but the chaplain could afford very 
little of his conversation to his young friend, be- 
ing himself, during the whole meal, the butt of 
the jester’s wit, to which he could not refrain 
from replying, although, to say sooth, he got 
somewhat worsted in the encounter. All present 
were tired, however, and all retired soon to rest, 
with the exception of Jean Charost, who sat up 
in his bed-room for two or three hours, laying 
out for himself a course of conduct which would 
save him, as far as possible, from all minor an- 
noyances. Nor was that course altogether ill 
devised for the attainment of even higher ob- 
jects than he pi’oposed. 

‘‘I will live in this household,” he thought, 
“ as far as possible, by myself. I will seek my 
own amusements apart, if I can but discover at 
what time the duke is likely to want me. Any 
who wish for my society shall seek it, and I will 
keep all familiarity at a distance. I will endeav- 
or to avoid all quaiTels with them ; but, if I am 
forced into one, I will try to make my opponent 
rue it.” 

At an early hour on the following morning the 
young man went forth to inquire after the duke’s 
health, and learned from one of the attendants at 
his door that he had passed a bad and feverish 
night. I was bidden to tell you, sir,” said the 
man, “ if you presented yourself, that his high- 
ness would like to see you at three this evening, 
but will not want you till then.” 

This intimation was a relief to Jean Charost; 
and, returning to his room, where he had left 
Martin Grille, he told him to prepare both their 
horses for a long ride. 

“ Before breakfast, sir ?” asked the man. 

“Yes, immediately,” replied the young seci’e- 
taiy. “We will breakfast somewhere, Martin, 
and dine somewhere too ; but I wish to explore 
the country, which seemed beautiful enough as 
we rode along.” 

“ Monstrous white, sir,” replied Martin Grille. 
“ However, you had better take some arms with 
you, for we may chance to miss the high-road, I 
being in no way topographical. The country in 
this neighborhood does not bear the best reputa- 
tion.” 

Jean Charost laughed at his fears, and ere half 
an hour was over they were on their horses’ 
backs and away. The morning was bright and 
pleasant, notwithstanding the keen frostiness of 
the air. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees, 
and the sun was shining cheerfully, though his 
rays had no effect upon the snow. There was a 
silence, too, over the whole scene, as soon as the 
immediate vicinity of the castle was passed, 
which was pleasant to Jean Charost, cooped up 
as he had been for several months previously in 
the close atmosphere of a town. From a slow 
walk, he urged his horse on into a trot, from a 
trot into a canter, and when at length the wood 
which mantled the castle was passed, and the 
road opened out upon the rounded side of the 
hill, boyhood’s fountain of light spirits seemed 
reopened in his heart, and he urged his horse on 
into a wild gallop over the nearly level ground 
at the top. 

Martin Grille came panting after. He was not 
one of the best horsemen in the world, and, 
though he clung pretty fast to his steed’s back, 1 


he was awfully shaken. That gay gallop, how- 
ever, had a powerful moral effect upon the good 
varlet. Bad horsemen have always a great rev 
erence for good ones. Martin Grille’s esteem 
for his master’s talents had been but small be- 
fore, simply because his own worldly experience, 

I his intimate knowledge of all tricks and contriv^- 
; ances, and the facile impudence and fertility of 
resources, which he possessed as the hereditary 
right of a Parisian of the lower orders, had ena- 
bled him to direct and counsel in a thousand tri- 
fles which had embarrassed Jean Charost simply 
because he had been unaccustomed to deal with 
them. But now, when Martin saw his easy mas- 
tery of the strong horse, and the light rein, the 
graceful seat, the joyous hilarity of aspect with 
which the young man bounded along, while he 
himself was clinging tight to the saddle with a 
fearful pressure, the sight made him feel an in- 
feriority which he had never acknowledged to 
himself before. 

At length, Jean Charost stopped, looked round 
and smiled, and Martin Grille, riding up, ex- 
claimed, in a half-dolorous half-laughing tone, 

“ Spare me, sir, I beseech you. You forget I am 
not accustomed to such wild capers. Every man 
is awkward, I find, in a new situation ; and 
though I can get on pretty well at procession 
pace, if my horse neither kicks nor stumbles, I 
would rather be excused galloping over hill- 
sides, for a fortnight at least, till my leather and 
his leather are better acquainted.” 

“ Well, well,” answered his master, “ we will 
go a little more slowly, though we must have a 
canter now and then, if but to make the snow 
fly. We will ride on straight for that village 
where the church tower is peeping up over the 
opposite side of the hill.” 

“There is a thick wood between us and it,” 
said Martin Grille. 

“ Doubtless the wood has a road tlmough it,” 
answered his master; and, without further dis- 
cussion, rode on. 

The wood, or rather forest — for it was a limb 
of the great forest of Corbeil — of which Martin 
Grille spoke, lay in the hollow between two 
gentle ranges of hills, upon one of which he and 
his master were placed at the moment. It was 
deeper, more extensive, and moi'e intricate than it 
had appeared to Jean Charost, seeing aci'oss from 
slope to slope, but not high enough to look down 
upon it as a map. As he directed his horse to- 
ward it, however, he soon came upon a road 
marked out by the track of horses, oxen, and 
carts, showing that many a person and many a 
vehicle had passed along it since the snow had 
fallen ; and even had he clearly comprehended 
that his servant really entertained any apprehen- 
sions at all, he would only have laughed at them. 

On entering the wood, the snow upon the 
ground, shining through the bar.e stems of the 
trees and the thin, brown branches of the under- 
wood, at first showed every object on either 
hand for several yards into the thicket. Even 
the footprints of the hare and the roe-deer could 
be seen; and Jean Charost, well accustomed to 
forest sports in his boyhood, paused at one spot, 
where the bushes were a gooddeUl beaten down, 
to point out the marks tq his servant, and say, 

“ A boar has been through here.” 

Some way further on, the wood became thick- 
er, oaks and rapidly deciduous trees gave way 
to the long-persistent beech ; and beneath the 
tall patriarchs of the forest, which had been suf- 


AGNES SOREL. 


37 


fered to grow up almost beyond maturity, a i 
young undergrowth, reserved for fire-wood, and 
cut every thirteen or fourteen years, formed a 
screen into which the eye could not penetrate 
more than a very few feet. Every here and 
there, too, were stunted evergreens thickening 
the copse, and bearing upon their sturdy though 
dwarfish arms many a large mass of snow which 
they had caught in its descent towai'd the ground. 
Across the road, in one place, was a solid mass 
of ice, which a few weeks before had been run- 
ning in a gay rivulet; and not twenty yards fur- 
ther was a little stream of beautiful, limpid wa- 
ter, without a trace of congelation, except a 
narrow fringe of ice on either baiik. 

Here Jean Charost pulled up his horse, and 
then, slackening the rein, let the beast put down 
his head to drink. Martin Grille did so likewise ; 
but a moment after both heard a sound of voices 
speaking at some little distance on the left. 

“ Hark 1 hark !” whispered Martin Grille. 

There are people in the wood — in the very 
heart of the wood.” 

“ Why, where would you find woodmen but 
in the wood ?” asked Jean Charost. “ You will 
hear their axes presently.” 

‘‘ I hope we shall not feel them,” said Martin 
Grille, in the same low tone. “ I declare that 
the only fine wood scenery I ever saw has been 
at the back of the fire.” 

“ They have got a fire there,” said Jean Cha- 
rost, pointing onward, but a little to the left. 
‘‘ Don’t you see the blue smoke curling up 
through the trees into the clear, cool air?” 

“ 1 do indeed, sir,” said Martin Grille. “ Pray, : 
sir, let us turn back. It’s not half so pretty as a 
smoky chimney.” 

'‘Are you a coward?” asked Jean Charost, 
turning somewhat sharply upon him. 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Martin, meekly: “ desperate 
— I have an uncle who fights for all the family.” 

“ Then stay where you are, or go back if you 
like,” replied his master. “ I shall go and see 
who these folks are. You had better go back, 
if you are afraid.” 

“Yes, sir — no, sir,” replied Martin Grille. “I 
am afraid — very much afraid- — but I won’t go 
back. I’ll> stay by you if I have my brains 
knocked out — though, good faith, they are not 
much worth knocking just now, for they feel quite 
addled — curd — curd ; and a little whey, too, I 
have a notion. But go on, sir; go on. They are 
not worth keeping if they are not worth losing.” 

Jean Charost rode on, with a smile, pitying the 
man’s fears, but believing them to be perfectly 
idle and foolish. The district of Berri, his native 
plarce, had hitherto escaped, in a great degree, 
the calamities which for years had afflicted the 
neighborhood of Paris. There was too little to 
be got there, for the plundering bands, which 
had sprung up from the dragon’s teeth sown by 
the wars of Edward the Third of England and 
Philip and John of France, or those which had 
arisen from the contentions between the Orleans j 
and Burgundian parties, to infest the neighbor- j 
hood of Bourges; and while the Parisian, with 
his mind full of tales brought daily into the cap- 
ital of atrocities perpetrated in its immediate vi- 
cinity, fancied every bush, not an officer, but a 
thief, his young master could hardly bring him- 
self to imagine that there was such a thing as 
danger in riding through a little wood within less 
than half a league of the chateau of the Duke of 
Orleans. 


He went on then, in full confidence, for some 
fifty or sixty yards further; but then suddenly 
stopped, and raised his hand as a sign for his 
servant to do so likewise. Martin Grille almost 
jumped out of the saddle, on his master’s sudden 
halt, and drew so deep a snorting sort of sigh 
that Jean Charost whispered, with an impatient 
gesture, “ Hush !” 

The fact was, his ears had caught, as they rode 
oil, a sound coming from the direction where 
rose the smoke, which did not altogether satisfy 
him. It was an exceedingly blasphemous oath 
— in those days, common enough in the mouths 
of military men, and not always a stranger to the 
lips of kings, but by no means likely to be ut- 
tered by a plain peasant or honest wood-cutter. 

He listened again : more words of similar im- 
port were uttered. It was evident that the ap- 
proach of horses over the snow had not been 
heard, and that, whoever were the persons in the 
wood, they were conversing together very free- 
ly, and in no very choice language. 

Curiosity seized upon Jean Charost, who was 
by no means without his faults, and, quietly swing- 
ing himself from his horse’s back, he gave the 
rein to Martin Grille, saying, in a whisper, “Here, 
hold my horse. I want to see what these people 
are about. If you see danger — and you have put 
the fancy into my head too — you may either bring 
him up to me, or ride away as fast as you can to 
the chateau of Beaut6, and tell what has hap- 
pened.” 

“ I will do both, sir,” said Martin Grille, with 
. his head a good deal confused by fear. “ That 
I is to say, I will first bring him up to you, and 
then ride away. But I do see danger now. 

! Hadn’t you better get up again?” 

Jean Charost walked on with a smile; but, 

^ after going some ten or fifteen paces, he slack- 
ened his speed, and, with a light step, turned in 
among the bushes, where there was a little sort 
of brake between two enormous old beech-trees. 
Martin Grille watched him as he advanced, and 
kept sight of him for some moments, while quiet- 
ly and slowly he took his way forward in the di- 
rection of the smoke, which was still very plain- 
ly to be seen from the spot where the valet sat. 
It is not to be denied that Martin’s heart beat 
very fast, and very unpleasantly, as much for his 
master as for himself perhaps ; and certainly, as 
the dry twigs and bramble stalks made a thicker 
and a thicker sort of mist round Jean Charost’s 
receding figure, the good man both gave him up 
for lost, and felt that he had conceived a greater 
affection for him than he had before imagined. 
He had a strong inclination, notwithstanding his 
fears, to get a little nearer, and was debating 
with himself whether he should do so or not, 
when all doubt and hesitation was put to an end 
by a loud shout, and a fierce volley of oaths from 
the wood. Nature would have her way; Mar- 
tin Grille turned sharp round, struck his spurs 
into the horse’s sides, and never stopped till he 
got to the gates of the chateau. 

A party of armed men was instantly collected 
on his report, with good Monsieur Blaize at their 
head, without waiting to seek casque or corselet; 
and compelling Martin Grille, very unwillingly, 
to go with them, they hurried on in the direction 
he pointed out, over the hill, and down toward 
the verge of the wood. They had not reached it, 
however, when, to the surprise of all, they beheld 
Jean Charost walking quietly toward them, bear- 
ing some.diing in his arms, and, on approaching 


38 


AGNES SOREL. 


nearer, they perceived, with greater astonish- 
ment than ever, that his burden was a young 
child, wrapped in somewhat costly swaddling- 
clothes 

~l^j^ 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Many, eager, and loud were the inquiries of 
the party who came to the rescue of Jean Cha- 
rost, regarding his adventures since Martin had 
left him; but their curiosity was left unsatisfied. 
All he thought fit to tell them amounted merely 
to the facts that he had been surrounded and 
seized, before he was prepared to resist, by a par- 
ty which utppeared to consist of common robbers; 
that for some time his life had seemed in dan- 
ger ; and that, in the end, his captors, after hav- 
ing emptied his purse, had consented to let him 
go, on condition that he would carry away the 
child with him, and promise to take care of it 
for six years. He had been made to take an 
oath qlso, he stated, neither to pursue the party 
who had captured him, nor to give any descrip- 
tion of their persons ; and, notwithstanding the 
arguments of the duke’s retainers, and especially 
of Monsieur Blaize, who sought to persuade him 
that an oath taken in duress was of no avail, he 
resolutely kept his word. 

The old €cuyer seemed mortified and dis- 
pleased; but he did not hesitate long as to his 
own course ; and, leaving the young secretary and 
Mai'tin Grille to find their way back to the cha- 
teau of Beaute as they could, he dashed on into 
the wood with his companions, swearing that he 
would bring in the marauders, or know the rea- 
son why. 

He was disappointed, however. The place 
where the captors of Jean Charost had been en- 
joying themselves was easily found by the em- 
bers of the fire round which they had sat; but 
they themselves were gone, leaving nothing but 
an empty leathern bottle and some broken meat 
behind them. The tracks of the horses’ feet, 
too, could be traced for some distance ; but, after 
they entered the little road through the wood, 
they became more indistinct amid other foot- 
prints and ruts, and, although Monsieur Blaize 
and his companions followed them, as they 
thought, to the village beyond, they could obtain 
no information from the peasantry. No one would 
admit that tliey had seen any one pass but Mat- 
thew So-and-so, the farmer ; or the priest of the 
parish, on his mule ; or the baillie, on his horse ; 
or some laborers with wagons; and, after a two 
hours’ search, the party of the duke’s men re- 
turned to the castle, surly and disappointed, and 
resolved to spare no means of drawing all the 
particulars from Jean Charost. 

In the mean time, the young secretary had re- 
turned to the little hamlet which had gathered 
round the foot of the chateau of Beaute, making 
Martin Grille, who was somewhat ashamed of 
the part he had acted in the morning’s adven- 
tures, carry the infant in his arms — a task for 
which he was better fitted than Jean Charost 
himself; for, to say truth, he made no bad nurse, 
and one of his many good qualities was a great 
love for children. At the hamlet, Jean Charost 
paused, and went into one or two of the cottages 
inquiring for Angelina Moulinet ; but he had to 
eo down quite to the foot of the hill before he 
found the house of the person of whom he was 
in search. It was small, but much neater than 


most of ihe rest, and, on opening the door, he 
found a little scene of domestic haj)piness which 
pleased the eye. A young husband and wife, ap- 
parently tolerably well to do in life, were seated 
together with two children, the husband busily 
engaged in carving out a pair ol sabots, or wood- 
en shoes, from an old stump ol willow, and the 
wife spinning as fast as she could get her fingers 
to go. The boy was, of course, teazing a cat; 
the little girl, still younger, was crawling about 
upon her hands and knees, and rolling before 
her a great wooden ball, probably ol her fa- 
ther’s handiwork. The fire burned bright; ev- 
ery thing about the place was clean and comfort- 
able ; and the whole formed a pleasant scene of 
calm mediocrity and rural happiness, better than 
all the Arcadias that ever were dreamed of. 

The wife rose up when the well-dressed young 
gentleman entered, and the husband inclined his 
head without leaving off his o{)erations upon the 
sabot. But both looked a little surprised when 
Martin Grille followed his master into the cot- 
tage, carrying an infant in his arms, and Angelina 
Moulinet, with the kindly tact which never aban- 
dons a woman, put down her distaff and went to 
look at the baby, comprehending at once that 
some strange accident had brought it there, and 
willing to smooth the way for explanation. 

“ What a beautiful little girl!” she exclaimed. 
“ Come, Pierrot, look what a beautiful child I” 

“ Is \t a little girl?” said Jean Cliarost, in per- 
fect sinqolicity ; “ I am sure I did' not know it.” 

“ Lord bless me ! sir,” cried the good woman, 
“ don’t you see ?” 

“ All I see,” replied Jean Charost, “ is, that it 
is an infant which has accidei:itally been cast upon 
my hands; and I wish to know, Madame Mf)u- 
linet, if you will take care of it for me?” 

The young woman looked at her husband, and 
the husband gazed with some astonishment at 
Jean Charost, murmuring at length, though with 
evident deference to his better half, “ I think 
we have enough of our own.” 

“ I do not expect you to take chai'ge of this 
child,” said Jean Charost, “ without proper pay- 
ment. I will engage that you shall be well re 
warded for your pains.” 

“ But, sir, we do not know you,” said the man . 
and his wife in the same breath inquired, “ Pray, 
sir, who sent you to us?” 

Jean Charost hesitated; and then taking the 
child from Martin Grille, told him to leave the 
cottage for a moment. 

The good valet obeyed ; but, being blessed 
with the faculty of other valets, he took up a jio- 
sition on the outside of the house which he ian- 
cied would enable him to use both his hearing 
and his sight. Neither served him much, how- 
ever ; for, though he saw good Angelina Mou- 
linet take the child from .Jean Charost’s arms, 
and the latter bend down his head toward her- 
self and her husband as they stood together, as 
if saying a few words to them in a low tone, not 
one of those words reached his ear through the 
cottage window. He could make nothing of the 
gestures, either, of any of the party. Angelina 
raised her eyes toward the sky, as if in some sur- 
prise ; and Pierrot crossed his arms upon his chest, 
looking grave and thornghtful. The moment after, 
both wei e seen to speak quickly together, and the 
result of the consultation, if it was one, was made 
manifest by Jean Charost leaving the child with 
them and coming out of the cottage door. 

“ Now give me my horse,” said the young g^n- 


AGNES SOREL. 


39 


tleman; and then added, while Martin uid’ast- j 
eued the bridle from the iron ring, “ Remember 
this house, Martin ; you will have to bring some 
money here for me to-night.” 

I will not forget it, sir,” replied Martin Grille; 
and then added, with a laugh, “ and I will bring 
the money safely, which is more than many a 
varlet could say of himself ;” but before the last 
words were uttered, his young master was in the 
saddle and on his way toward the chateau. 

Under a sharp-pointed arch which formed the 
gateway, two or three of the duke’s men were 
lounging about; and the moment Jean Charost 
ap[)eared, one of them advanced to his horse’s 
side, saying, His highness has been inquiring 
for you, sir.” 

“ Is it three of the clock yet?” asked Jean 
Charost, somewhat anxiously. 

“Not two yet, sir,” replied the. man; and 
.springing from his horse, the young secretary 
hurried on toward the apartments of the duke. 
He was admitted instantly, and found his prince- 
ly master seated in a chair, dressed in a light- 
furred dressing-gown, and sadly changed in ap- 
pearance, even since the preceding day. His 
face was very [)ale, his eye heavy, and his lips 
parched ; but still he smiled with a good-hu- 
mored, though not gay expression of counte- 
nance, saying, “ I hope they have not recalled 
you from any amusement, De Brecy ; for I did 
not think I should want you till three. But I 
feel ill, my friend, and there are very busy 
thoughts in ray mind.” 

He paused for a moment or two, looking down 
thoughtfully on the table, and then added, slow- 
ly, “ When the brain is full — perhaps the heart 
too — of these eager, active, tireless emmets of 
the mind, called thoughts, we are glad to drive 
some of them forth. Alas ! De Brecy, how rare- 
ly does a prince find any one to share them 
with !” 

He paused again, and Jean Charost did not 
venture a reply. He would have fain said, 
“ Share them with me ;” but he felt that it would 
be presumptuous, and he remained silent till the 
duke at length went on. “You are dilferent 
from the rest of the people about me, De Brecy; 
from any one I have ever had — unhackneyed in 
the world — not ground down to nothing by the 
polishing of a court. There is something new 
and fresh about you ; somewhat like what I once 
was myself. Now, what am I ? By starts a wise 
man, by starts a fool.” 

“ Oh no, my prince,” cried Jean Charost, “ I 
can not believe that. ’Tis but temptation leads 
you for a moment fi'om the path of wisdom ; the 
sickness, as it were, of an hour. But the life is 
healthy; the heart is sound.” 

The prince smiled, but went on, apparently 
pursuing the course of his own thoughts. “ To 
know what is right — to do what is wrong — to 
feel a strong desire for good, and constantly to 
tall into evil, surely this is folly ; surely it is a 
life of folly — surely it is worse than if one did 
not know what ought to be, as a blind man can 
not be charged with stupidity for running against 
a wall, which any other would be an idiot not to 
avoid.” 

He looked up in the young secretary’s face, 
and Jean Charost, encouraiged by his tone, ven- 
tured to reply, “ It wants but a strong will, sir. 
You have a strong will against your enemies, I 
know ; why not have a strong will against your 
self?” 


! “I have, De Brecy — I have,’' replied the duke, 
j “ But my strong will against myself is just like 
my strong will against my enemies — very potent 
for the time, but easily mollified ; a peace is 
proposed — favorable terms of compromise of- 
fered, and lo ! I and myself are friends again, and 
all our mutual offenses forgiven.” 

1 He spoke with a smile, for the figure amused 
^ his fancy ; but the next instant he started up, 
saying, “It is time that this should come to an 
' end. My will is now powerful, and my future 
cour.se shall be different. I will take my resolu- 
tions firmly — I will shape my course — I will lay 
it down in writing, as if on a map, and then very 
shame will prevent my deviating. Sit down, 

I De Brecy, sit down, and write what I shall dic- 
tate.” Jean Charost seated himself, took some 
paper which was upon the table, and dipped a 
pen in the ink, while the duke stood by his side 
! in such a position that he could see the sheet uu- 
' der his secretary’s hand, on which he gazed for 
: a minute or two with a thoughtful, half-absent 
j look. The young man expected him every mo- 
ment to begin the dictation of the resolutions 
which he had formed; but at length the duke 
said, in an altered tone, “No need of that; it 
would show a doubt of myself, of which I trust 
there is none. No, no ; true resolution needs not 
fetters. I have resolved enough ; I will begin to 
' act. Give me that fur cloak, De Brecy, and go 
I and see if the picture-gallery be warmed. Tell 
: one of the varlets at the door to pile logs enough 
upon the fire, and to wait there. Then return to 
me,” H 

Without reply, Jean Charost quitted the room, 
and told one of the two attendants who were 
seated wdthout to show him the way to the pic- 
' ture-gallery — an apartment he had never yet 
heard of. The man led him on along the cor- 
ridor, to a door at no great distance, which he 
I opened ; and Jean Charost, the moment after, 
found himself in a long, narrow sort of hall, ex- 
tending across the whole width of the building, 
and lighted from both ends. It was divided into 
three separate portions, by columns on either side, 
and the walls between were covered with pic- 
tures nearly to the top. To our eyes these paint- 
ings might seem poor and crude ; but to the eyes 
of Jean Charost they were, like those which he 
had seen at the Hotel d’Orleans, in Paris, per- 
fect marvels of art. Before he paused to exam- 
ine any of them, he ordered more wood to be 
thrown upon the fire, which was burning faintly 
in the great fire-place in the centre ; and while 
the attendant had gone to bring the wood from 
a locker, he walked slowly toward the western 
end of the gallery, whei’e, upon a little strip of 
white silk, suspended between the two columns, 
appeared in large letters the word “ amori.” 
On entering that portion of the gallery, he was 
not at all surpiised, after reading the inscription, 
to find that it contained nothing but portraits of 
wromen. All seemed very beautiful ; and tlioiigh 
the faces were all strange to him, he had no dif 
ficulty in recognizing many of the persons whom 
the portraits were intended to represent, for the 
names, in most instances, were inscribed in large 
letters on the frame. 

A general look around filled him with aston- 
ishment, and a sort of consternation at the daring 
levity which had gathered together, under so 
meaning an inscription, the portraits of some of 
the most celebrated ladies in France. But he 
did not pause long, for the fire was soon ai'ranged 


40 


AGNES SOREL. 


and kindled into a blaze ; and he returned, as 
he had been directed, to the chamber of the 
duke. 

“ Now,” said the prince, as he entered, “ is 
all ready ?” 

“ It is, sir,” answered Jean Charost ; but the 
fiir is still chilly, and, in truth, your highness does 
not look well. Were it not better to pause for 
awhile ?” 

“ No, no,” replied the Duke of Orleans, quick- 
ly, but not sharply ; let us go at once, my friend. 
I will put such a seal upon my resolutions, that 
neither I nor the world shall ever forget them.” 

He drew the fur cloak tighter round him, and 
walked out of the room, leaning heavily on the 
young secretary’s arm. As he passed, he bade 
both the men at the chamber-door follow ; and 
then walking into the gallery, he turned direct- 
ly to that portion of it which Jean Charost had 
examined. There, seating himself in a chair 
near the centre of the room, while the two serv- 
ants stood at a little distance behind, he pointed 
to a picture in the extreme southwestern corner, 
and bade Jean Chai'ost bring it to him. It was 
the picture of a girl quite young, less beautiful 
than many of the others, indeed, but with the 
peculiar beauty of youth; and when the Duke 
of Orleans had got it, he let the edge of the frame 
rest upon his knee for a moment or two, and 
gazed upon the face in silence. 

Jean Charost would have given a great deal to 
be able to see the duke’s heart at that moment, 
and to trace there the emotions to which the 
icontemplation of that picture gave rise. A smile, 
lender and melancholy, rested upon the prince’s 
face ; but the melancholy deepened into heavy 
gloom as he continued to gaze, and the smile 
rapidly departed. 

“ I might spare this one,” he said. ‘‘ Poor 
thing ! I might spare this one. The grave has 
no jealousies — ” He gazed again for a single in- 
stant, and then said, “ No, no — all — all. Here, 
take it, and put it in the fire.” 

Turning his head, he had spoken to one of the 
attendants; but the man seemed so utterly con- 
founded by the order, that he repeated the words, 
“ On the fire?” as he received the picture from 
the prince’s hands. 

“ Yes — on the fire,” said the duke, slowly and 
sternly ; and then pointing to another, he added, 
“ Give me that.” 

Jean Charost brought it to him, when it met 
with the same fate, but with less consideration 
than the other. Another and another succeed- 
ed ; but at length a larger one than the rest was 
pointed out by the duke, and the young secre- 
tary paused for an instant before it, utterly con- 
founded as he read beneath the name of the 
Duchess of Burgundy. It fared no better than 
the rest, and another still was added to the flames. 
But then the duke paused, saying, “ I am ill, 
my friend — I am ill. I can not go on with this. 
I leave the task to you. Stay here with these 
men, and see that every one of the pictures in 
this room, as far as yonder two columns on either 
side, be burned before nightfall, with one excep- 
tion. I look to you to see the execution of an 
act which, if I die, will wipe out a sad stain from 
my memory. You hear what I say,” he con- 
tinued, turning to the two attendants; and was 
then walking toward the centre door of the gal- 
lery, when Jean Charost said, “ Your highness 
mentioned one exception, but you did not point 
it out.” 


The duke laid his hand upon his arm, led him 
to the side of the room, and pointed to a picture 
nearly in the centre, merely uttering the word 
“That!” 

On the frame was inscribed the words, “ Val- 
entine, Duchess of Orleans;” and, after having 
gazed at it for a moment in silence, the prince 
turned and quitted the room. 

When he was gone, Jean Charost remained for 
a few minutes without taking any steps to obey 
his command. The two men stood likewise, with 
their arms crossed, in a revery nearly as grave as 
that of the young secretary ; but their thoughts 
were very diflerent from his. He comprehend- 
ed, in a degree, the motives upon which the 
prince acted, and felt how strong and vigorous 
must be the resolution, and yet how painful the 
feelings which had prompted the order he had 
given. Nay more, his fancy shadowed forth a 
thousand accessories — a thousand associations, 
which must have hung round, and connected 
themselves with that strong act of determination 
which his royal master had just performed — 
sweet memories, better feelings, young hopes, 
ardent passions, kindly sympathies, wayward 
caprices, volatile forgetfulness, sorrow, regret, 
and mourning, and remorse. A light, a,s from 
imagination, played round the jiortraits as he 
gazed upon them. The spirits of the dead, of 
the neglected, of the forgotten, seemed to ani- 
mate the features on the wall, and he could not 
but feel a sort of painful regret that, however 
guilty, however vain, however foolish naight be 
the passion which caused those speaking effigies 
to be ranged around, he should have been select- 
ed to consign them to that desti'oying element 
which might devour the picture, but could not 
obliterate the sin. 

At length he started from his revery, and be- 
gan the appointed work, the men obeying habit- 
ually the orders they received, although doubt's 
existed in their minds whether the prince was 
not suffering from temporary insanity in com- 
manding the destruction of objects which they 
looked upon only as rare treasures, without the 
slightest conception of the associations which so 
often in this world render those things most esti- 
mable in tire eyes of others, sad, painful, or peril- 
ous to the possessor. ' 

In about an hour all was completed ; and I am 
not certain that what I may call the expei ience 
of that hour — the thoughts, the sensations, the 
fancies of Jean Charost — had not added more than 
one year to his mental life. Certain it is, that 
with a stronger and a more manly step, and 
with even additional earnestness of character, he 
walked back to the apartments of the duke, and 
knocked for admission. A voice, but not that of 
the prince, told him to come in, after a moment’s 
delay, and he found the maitre d’hotel in con- 
ference with his master. 

“ Come in, De Brecy,” said the duke. “ Leave 
us, Lomelini. You are his good friend, I know. 

»But I have to speak with him on my own afl'airs, 
not on his. With them I have naught to do, and 
it were well for others not to meddle either. So 
let them understand.” 

The maitre d’hotel retired, bowing low ; and, 
after remaining a moment or two in thought, 
the duke raised his eyes to the young secretary’s 
face, saying, in a somewhat languid tone, “Were 
you ever in this part of the country before, De 
Brecy?” 

“ Never, your highness,” replied Jean Charost 


AGNES SOREL. 


41 


“ You have met with an adventure in the wood, 
I hear,” said the duke, ‘‘and did not tell me of 
it.” # 

“I did not think it right to intrude such sub- 
jects on your highness,” answered the young 
man. “ Had there been any thing to lead to it, 
I should have told you at once.” 

“Well, well,” said the duke, “you shall tell 
me hereafter ;” and then he added, somewhat ir- 
ritably, “ they have broken through my thoughts 
with these tales. I want you to do me a serv- 
ice.” 

“ Your highness has but to command,” said 
Jean Charost. 

“ I am ill, De Brecy,” said the duke. “ I feel 
more so than I ever did before ; indeed, I have 
been rarely ill, and, perhaps — But that matters 
not. Whatever be the cause, I have a strange 
•feeling upon me, a sort of presentiment that my 
life will not be very long extended. You heard ' 
the announcement that was made to me by man J 
or shadow — I know not, and care not what — in i 
the convent of the Celestins. But it is not that [ 
which has produced this impression, for I had 
forgotten it within an hour ; but I feel ill ; and I 
see not why there should not be influences in ! 
external and invisible things which, speaking to 
the ear of the soul, without a voice, announce 
the approach of great changes in our state of be- 
ing, and warn us to prepare. However that may 
be, the feeling is strong upon me. I have order- 
ed an imperial notary to be sent for, in order ^ 
that I may make my will. In it I will show the | 
world how I can treat my enemies — and my j 
friends also ; for I may show my forgetfulness of 
the injuries of the one, without i’ailing in my grati- 
tude to the other.” 

He leaned his head upon his hand for a mo- 
ment or two, and then added, “ I long earnestly 
to see my wife. Yet from causes that matter not 
to mention, I do not wish to send her a long let- 
ter, telling her of my state and of my feelings. 

I have, therefore, written a few lines, merely 
saying I am indisposed here at Beaute. I know 
that they will induce her to set out immediately 
from Blois, where she now is, and it must be the 
task of the messenger to prepare her mind for 
the changes that she must, and the changes that 
she may find here. Do you understand me ?” 

“ I think I do, sir,” replied Jean Charost, 

“ fully.” 

“ I should wish him, also,” said the duke, “ in 
case my own lips should not be able to speak the 
words, to tell her, that whatever may have been ; 
my faults, however passion, or vanity, or folly I 
may have misled me, I have ever retained a deep 
and affectionate regard for her virtues, her ten- 
derness, and her gentleness. I could say more — 
much more — I will say more if ever I behold her 
again. But let her be assured that my last prayer 
shall be to call down the blessing of God upon 
her head, and entreat his protection for her and 
for our children.” 

While he spoke> continued to hold a sealed 
letter in his hand, and gazed at Jean Charost very 
earnestly. Nevertheless, he seemed to hesitate, | 
and when he paused, he looked down upon the ; 
paper, turning it round and round, without speak- : 
ing, for several minutes. Then, however, as if ! 
he had decided at length, he looked up sudden- 1 
ly, saying, “ There is none I can send but Lome- j 
lini or yourself. Joigni is a rough brute, though : 
bold and honest. Blaize has no heart, and very i 
little understanding. Monluc would fi'ighten her , 

(' 


to death ; for were he to see me now, he would 
think me dead already. There is none but you 
or Lomelini then. In some respects, it were bet- 
ter to send him. He is of mature age, of much 
experience, accurate and skillful in his dealings, 
and passably honest ; not without heart either, 
affectionately attached to her, as well he may be, 
brought up and promoted by her father ; but 
. there is in him a world of Italian cunning, a great 
deal of cowardly timidity, and an all-absorbing 
sense of his own interests, the action of which 
' we can never altogether count upon. Besides, 
she loves him not. I know it — I am sure of it, 
although she is too gentle to complain. He came 
hither as her servant. He found it more for his 
interest to be mine. She can not love him. But 
enough of that. I have conceived a regard for 
you, De Brecy, and you will find proofs of it. It 
is not a small one that I send you on this mission. 
There is something in the freshness of your char- 
acter and in the frankness of your nature which 
will win confidence, and I wish you to set off at 
once for Blois. Bear this letter to the duchess, 
tell her in what state I am — but kindly, gently — 
and accompany her back hither. What men 
will you want with you ? The country is some- 
what disturbed, but I do not think there is much 
danger.” 

“ One who knows the way will suffice, my 
lord,” replied De Brecy. “A small party may 
pass more easily than a large one. I will only 
beg a stout hoi’se from your highness’s stables, 
which my man can lead, and which may both 
carry what we need by the way, and serve me 
in case of any accident to my own. I will un- 
dertake to deliver the letter, if I live to the end 
of the journey.” 

“ Perhaps you are right in choosing small at- 
tendance,” said the duke. “I will send you a 
stout fellow to accompany you, who knows every 
rood of the road. He is but a courier, but he 
makes no bad man-at-arms in case of need; and, 
though I would not have you go fully armed, I 
think it were as well if you wore a secret be- 
neath your ordinary dress.” 

“ I have no arms of any kind with me but my 
sword and dagger, sir,” replied Jean Charost, 
“ and I do not think I shall need more.’’ 

“Yes — yes, you may,” replied the duke. 
“Stay; I will write a word to Lomelini. He 
will pi’ocure you all that is needful;” and, draw- 
ing some paper toward him, the duke wrote, 
with a hand which shook a good deal, the fol- 
lowing words: “Signor Lomelini, put Armand 
Chauvin under the orders of Monsieur De Brecy 
upon a journey which he has to take for me. 
Command the armorer to furnish him with what- 
ever arms he may require, and the chief icuyer 
to let him take from the stable what horses he 
may select, with the exception of gray Clisson, 
the Arab jennet, my own hackney, and my three 
destriers. Orleans.” 

“ There,” said the duke, “there. Here is an 
order* on the treasurer, too, for your expenses; 
and now, when will you set out?” 

“ In an hour,” replied Jean Charost. 

“Can you get ready so soon?” the prince in- 
quired. 

“ I think so, your highness,” replied the young 
secretary. “ I shall be ready myself, if the two 
men are prepared.” 

“ So be it, then,” said the Duke of Orleans. 

“ I will go lie down on my bed again, for I am 
weary in heart and limb.” 


./ 


42 


AGNES SOREL. 


CHAPTER XV. 

No season is without its beauty, no scene with- 
out its peculiar interest. If the gi’eat mountain, 
with its stony peak shooting up into the sky, has 
sublimity of one kind, the wide expanse of open 
country, moor, or heath, or desert, with its limit- 
less horizon and many-shaded lines, has it of an- 
other. To an eye and a heart alive to the im- 
pressions of the beautiful and the grand, some- 
thing to charm and to elevate will be found in 
almost every aspect of natui’e. The storm and 
the tempest, as well as the sunshine and the 
calm, will afford some sources of pleasure; and, 
as the fading away of the green leaf in the au- 
tumn enchants the eye by the resplendent color- 
ing produced, decay will be found to decorate, 
and ruin to embellish. 

Take a winter scene, for instance, with the 
whole countiy covered with a white mantle of 
the snow, the trees and the forests raising them- 
selves up brown and dim, the masses of dark 
pines and firs standing out almost black upon 
the light ground from which they rise, and the 
view extending far over a nearly level country, 
with here and there a rounded hill rising de- 
tached and abruptly from the plain, perhaps un- 
broken in its monotonous line, perhaps crowned 
by the sharp angles and hard lines of fortress or 
town. The description does not seem very in- 
viting. But let us show how this scene varied 
during the course of the evening, as three travel- 
ers rode along at a quick pace, although their 
hoi’ses seemed somewhat tired, and the distance 
they had journeyed had undoubtedly been con- 
siderable. Toward three o’clock a heavy, gray 
cloud, apparently portending more snow, stretch- 
ed over the gi-eater part of the sky, cutting off 
the arch of the concave, and seeming like a flat 
canopy spread overhead. To the southwest the 
heavens remained clear, and there the pall of 
cloud was fringed with gold, while from under- 
neath streamed the horizontal light, catching 
upon and brightening the slopes, and throwing 
the dells into deeper shadow. The abrupt hills 
looked blue and grand, and raised their heads as 
if to support the heavy mass of gray above. 
Gradually, as the sun descended lower, that line 
of open sky became of a brighter and a brighter 
yellow. The dun canopy parted into masses, 
checkering the heavens with black and gold. 
The same warm hues spread over every emi- 
nence, and, as the sun descended further still, a 
rosy light, glowing brighter and brighter every 
instant, touched the snowy summits of the hills, 
flooded the plain, and seeking out in all its sinu- 
osities the course of the ice-covered river, flashed 
back from the glassy surface as if a multitude of 
rubies had been scattered across the scene, while 
the gray wood, which fringed the distant sky, 
blazed, with a ruddy brightness pouring through 
the straggling branches, as if a vast fire were 
kindled on the plains beyond. 

It was the last effort of the beauty-giving day, 
and all those three travelers felt and enjoyed it 
in their several ways. The sun went down ; the 
hills grew dark and blue ; every eminence, and 
even wave of the ground, appeared to rise higher 
to the eye ; the grayness of twilight spread over 
all the scene; but still, upon the verge of the 
sky, lingered the yellow light for full half an 
tmur after day was actually done. Then, through 
the broken cloud, gleamed out the lustrous stars, 
like the brighter and the better hopes that come 


sparkling from on high after the sunshine of this 
life is done, and when the clouds and vapors of 
the earth are scattering away. 

Still the three rode on. An hour before, there 
had been visible on the distant edge of the sky 
a tall tower like that of a catheilral, and one or 
two spires and steeples scattered round. It told 
them that a town was in that direction — the town 
to which they were bending their steps ; but all 
was darkness now, and they saw it no more. 
The road was fair, however, and well tracked ; 
and though it had been intensely cold during 
the greater part of the day, the evening had be- 
come somewhat milder, as if a thaw were com- 
ing on. A light mist rose up from the ground, 
as they entered the wmod, not sufficient to ob- 
scure the way, but merely to throw a softening 
indistinctness over objects at any distance, and, 
as they issued forth from among the larger trees, 
upon a piece of swampy ground, covered with 
stunted willows, Jean Charost, for he was at the 
head of the party, fancied he saw a light moving 
along at some little distance on the lel't. 

“ There is some one with a lantern,” he said, 
turning to a stout man who was riding beside 
him. 

Feu folletF replied the other. “We must 
not follow that, my lord, or we shall be up to our 
neck in a quagmire.” 

“ Why, such exhalations are not common at 
this time of year, Chauvin,” replied the young 
man. 

“ Exhalations or no exhalations,” rej^oined the 
other, “they come at all times, to miriead poor 
travelers. All I know is, that the short road to 
Pithiviers turns off a quarter of a league further 
on.” 

j “Exhalations!” said Martin Grille; “I never 
, heard them called that name before. Malignant 
spirits, I have always heard say, who have lured 
many a man and horse to their death. Don’t fol- 
low it, sir ; pray, don’t follow it. That would 
be worse than the baby business.” 

Jean Charost laughed, as he replied, “I shall 
only follow^ the guidance of Monsieur Chauvin 
here. He will lead me better than any lantern. 
But it certainly does seem to me that the light 
moves on by our side. It can not be more than 
two or three hundred yards distance either.” 

“ That’s their trick, sir,” said Chauvin. “ They 
I always move on, and seem quite near; but if you 
hunted them, you would never come up with 
I them, I can tell you. I did so once when I was 
; a boy, and well-nigh got drowned for my pains. 
Hark ! I thought I heard some one calling. 
That’s a new trick these devils have got, I sup- 
I pose, in our bad times.” 

All pulled up their horses and listened ; but 
heard nothing more, and rode on again, till, just 
as they were beginning to ascend a little rise 
where the snow had been drifted off the road, 
and the horses’ hoofs rang clear u[)on the hard 
ground, aloud shout was heard upon the left. 

“Halloo, ijailro ! who goes there?” cried a 
voice some fifty or sixty yards distant. “ Give 
us some help here. We have got into a quag- 
mire, and know not which way to turn.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, don’t go, sir,” cried Mar- 
tin Grille. “ It’s a new trick of the devil, de- 
pend upon it, as Monsieur Chauvin says.” 

“ Pooh, nonsense,” replied Jean Charost; and 
then raising his voice, he cried, “ Who is it that 
calls?” 

i “ What signifies that,” cried a stern voice. 


AGNES SOREL. 


43 


“ If you are Christians, come and help us. If you 
are not, jog on your way, and the devil seize you.” 

Well, call again as we come, to guide us to 
you,” said Jean Charost, “ for there is no need of 
us getting into the quagmire too.” 

“ Let me go first, sir, and sound the way,” said 
the courier. 

“Halloo, halloo!” cried two or three voices, 
as a signal; and, following the sound, Jean Cha- 
rost and the courier, with Martin Grille a good 
way behind, proceeded slowly and cautiously 
toward the party of unfortunate travelers, till at 
length they could descry something like a grou[) 
of men and horses among the willows, about 
twenty yards distant. It is true, some of the 
horses seemed to have no legs, or to be lying 
down, and one man dismounted, holding hard 
by a willow. 

“ Keej) up, keep up — we are coming to you,” 
replied Jean Charost. “It is firm enough here, 
if you could but reach us.” 

The guide, who was in advance, suddenly 
cried, “ Halt, there I” and, at the same moment, 
his horse’s fore feet began to sink in the ground. 

“ Here, catch my rein, Chauvin,” cried the 
young secretary, springing to the ground; “I 
think I see a way to them.” 

“ Take care, sir — take care,” cried the courier. 

“No fear,” answered Jean Charost; “from 
tree to tree must give one footing. There are 
some old roots, too, rising above the level. Stay 
there, Chauvin, to guide us back.” Proceeding 
cautiously, trying the firmness of every step, and 
sometimes springing from tree to tree, he came 
within about six feet of the man whom he had 
seen dismounted, and, calling to him to give him 
his hand, he leaned forward as far as he could, 
holding firmly the osier near which he stood with 
his left arm. But neither that personage nor his 
companions were willing to leave their horses be- 
hind them, and it was a matter of much more dif- 
ficulty to extricate the beasts than the men; for 
some of them had sunk deep in the marsh, and 
seemed to have neither power nor inclination to 
struggle. Nearly an hour was expended in ef- 
foiis, some fruitless and others successful, to get 
the animals out; but at length they were all res- 
cued, and Jean Charost found his little party in- 
creased by six cavaliers, in a somewhat woeful 
plight. 

The man whom he had first rescued, and who 
seemed the principal personage of the ti’oop, 
thanked him warmly for his assistance, but in a 
short, sharp, self-sufficient tone which was not 
altogether the most agreeable. 

“ Where are you going, young man ?” he said, 
at length, as they were remounting their horses. 

“ To Pithiviers,” answered .lean Charost, as 
laconically. 

“ Then we will go with you,” replied the oth- 
er; “ and you shall guide us ; for that is our des- 
tination too.” 

“ 'I'hat will depend upon whether your horses 
can keep up with mine,” replied Jean Charost; 
“ for I have spent more time here than I can 
well spare.” 

“ We will see,” replied the other, with a laugh ; 
“ you have rendered us one service, we will try 
if you can render us another, and then thank you 
for both at the end of our journey.” 

“ Very well,” replied Jean Charost, and rode 
on. 

The other kept by his side, however; for the 
tall and powerful horse which bore him seemed 


none the worse for the accident which had hap- 
pened. Armand Chauvin and Martin Grille fol- 
lowed close upon their young leader, and the 
other five strangers brought up the rear. 

The rest of the journey, of well-nigh two 
leagues, passed without accident, and the two 
foremost liorsemen were gradually led into some- 
thing like a general conversation, in which Jean 
Charost’s new companion, though he could not 
be said to make himself agreeable, showed a great 
knowledge of the world, of life, of courts, of for- 
eign countries; and dis[)layed a somewhat rough 
but keen and trencliant wit, which led his young 
fellow-traveler to the conclusion that he was no 
common man. The last two miles of the jour- 
ney were passed by moonlight, and Jean Charost 
had now an opportunity of distinguishing the per- 
sonal appearance of his companion, which per- 
ha()s was more preposse,ssiug than his speech. 
He was a man of tlie middle age, not very tall, 
but exceedingly broad across the chest and shoul- 
ders; and his face, without being handsome, had 
something fine and commanding in it. He rode 
his horse with more power than grace, manag- 
ing him with an ease that seemed to leave the 
creature no will of his own, and every movement, 
indeed, displayed extraordinary personal vigor, 
joined with some dignity. His dress seemed 
rich and costly, though the colors were not easily 
distinguished. But the short mantle, with the 
long, furred sleeves, hanging down almost to his 
horse’s belly, betokened at once, to a Frenchman 
of those days, the man of high degree. 

Although the young secretary examined him 
certainly very closely, he did not return the scru- 
tiny, but rnerely gave him a casual glance, as the 
moonlight fell upon him, and then continued his 
conversation till they entered the town of Pithi- 
viers. 

“To what inn do we go, Chauvin?” asked 
Jean Charost, as they passed in among the hou- 
ses; but, before the other could answer, the 
stranger exclaimed, “ Never mind — you shall 
I come to my inn. I will entertain you — for to- 
night, at least. Indeed,” he added, “there is 
but one inn in the place worthy of the name, and 
my people are in possession of it. We w'ill find 
room for you and your men, however ; and you 
shall sup with me — if you be noble, as I suppose.” 

“ I am, sir,” replied Jean Charost, and followed 
where the other led. 

As they were entering the principal street, 
which was quiet and still enough, the stranger 
pulled up his horse, called up one of his follow- 
ers, and spoke to him in a language which Jean 
: Charost did not understand. Then turning to 
the young gentleman, he said, “ Let us dismount, 
i Here is a shorter way to the inn, on foot. Your 
i men can go on with mine.” 
i Jean Chai’ost hesitated ; but, unwilling to show 
doubt, he sprang from his horse’s back, after a 
j moment’s consideration, gave the rein to Martin 
1 Grille, and walked on with his companion up a 
I very narrow street, which seemed to lead round 
the back of the buildings before which they had 
! just been pa.ssing. 

I The stranger walked slowly, and, as they ad- 
vanced, he said, “ May I know your name, young 
gentleman?” * 

“Jean Charost de Brecy,” replied the duke’s 
secretary ; and, though he had a strong inclina- 
tion, he refrained from asking the name of his 
companion in return. There was a something, 
he cdiiM not well tell what, that inspired respect 


44 


AGNES SOREL. 


about the stranger — a reverence without love ; 
and the young secretai'y did not venture to ask 
any questions. A few moments after, a small 
house presented itself, built of stone, it is true, 
whereas the others had been mainly composed 
of wood ; but still it was far too small and mean 
in appearance to accord with the idea which 
Jean Oharost had formed of the principal auberge 
of the good town of Pithiviers. At the door of this 
house, however, the elder gentleman stopped, as 
if about to enter. The door was opened almost 
at the same moment, as if on a preconcerted plan, 
and a man appeared with a torch in his hand. 

Jean Charost hesitated, and held back; but 
the other turned, after ascending the three steps 
which led to the door, and looked back, saying, 
“ Come in — what are you afraid of?” 

The least suspicion of fear has a great influence 
upon youth at all times, and Jean Charost was 
by no means without the failings of youth, al- 
though early misfortune and early experience 
had rendered him, as I have before said, older 
than his years. 

I am not afraid of any thing,” he replied, fol- 
lowing the stranger. “ But this does not look 
like an inn.” 

“ It is the back way,” replied the other ; “ and 
you will soon find tliat it is the inn.” 

Thus saying, he walked through a narrow pas- 
sage which soon led into a large court-yard, the 
man with the torch going before, and displaying 
by the light he carried a multitude ol' objects, 
which showed the young secretary that his com- 
panion had spoken nothing but the truth, and 
that they were, indeed, in the court-yard of on.e 
of those large and very handsome auberges — very 
different from the cabarets, the gites, and replies, 
all inns of different classes at that time in France. 

Two or three times as they went, different men, 
some in the gai’b of the retainers of a noble house 
dressed in gaudy colors, some in the common 
habiliments of the attendants of an inn, came 
from difl'erent parts of the court toward the man 
who carried the torch ; but as often, a slight move- 
ment of his hand caused them to fall back again 
from the path of those whom he w'as lighting. 

Right in front was a great entrance door, and 
a large passage from which a blaze of light 
streamed forth, showing a great number of peo- 
ple coming and going within ; but to the left was 
a flight of half a dozen stone steps leading to a 
smaller door, now closed. To it the torch-bearer 
advanced, opened it, and then drew back rever- 
ently to let those who followed pass in. A single 
man, with a cap and plume, appeared within, at 
a little distance on the left, who opened the door 
of a small room, into which the stranger entered, 
followed by his young companion. Jean Cha- 
rost gave a rapid glance at the man who opened 
the door, whose dress was now as visible as it 
would have been in daylight, and perceived, em- 
broidered in letters of gold upon his cap, just be- 
neath the feather, the words “ Ich houd." They 
puzzled him ; for though he did not remember 
their meaning, he had some recollection of having 
heard that they formed the motto, or rallying 
words, of some great man or some great faction. 

The stranger advanced quietly to a chair, 
seated himself, turned to the person at the door 
who had given him admittance, and merely pro 
nounced the word “ Supper.” 

“ For how — ” said the attendant, in an in- 
quiring tone, and it is probable that he was about 
to add the word many,” with some title of rev- 


erence or respect, but the other stopped him at 
once, saying, “For two — speak with Monsieur 
D’lpres, and take his orders. See that they be 
obeyed exactly.” 

Then turning to Jean Charost, he said, in a 
good-humored tone, “ Sit, sit, my young friend. 
And now let me give you thanks. You rendered 
me a considerable service — not, perhaps, that it 
was as great as you imagine ; for I should have 
got out somehow. These adventures always 
come to an end, and I have been in worse quag- 
mires of various kinds than that ; but you ren- 
dered me a considerable service, and, what is 
more to the purpose, you did it boldly, skillfully, 
and promptly. You pleased me, and during sup- 
per you shall tell me more about yourself. Fer- 
haps I may serve you.” 

“I think not, sir,” replied Jean Charost; “for 
I desire no change in my condition at the present 
moment. As to myself, all that I have to say — 
all, indeed, that I intend to say, is, that my name, 
as I told you, is Jean Charost, Seigneur De Brecy ; 
that my father fought and died in the service of 
his country ; and that I am his only child ; but 
still most happy to have rendered you any serv- 
ice, however inconsiderable.” 

The other listened in profound silence, with 
his eyes bent upon the table, and without the 
slightest variation of expression crossing his coun- 
tenance. 

“ You talk well, young gentleman,” he said, 
“and are discreet, I see. Do you happen to 
guess to whom you are speaking?” 

“ Not in the least,” replied Jean Charost. “ I 
can easily judge, sir, indeed, that I am speaking 
to no ordinary man — to one accustomed to com 
mand and be obeyed; who may be ottended, per- 
haps, at my plain dealing, and think it want of 
reverence for his person that I speak not more 
frankly. Such, however, is not the case, and as- 
suredly I can in no degree divine who you are. 
You may be the King of Sicily, who, I have been 
told, is traveling in this direction. The Duke de 
Bern, I know you are not; for I have seen him 
very lately. I am inclined to think, from the de- 
scription of his person, however, that you may be 
the Count of St. Paul.” 

The other smiled, gravely, and then replied, 
“ The first ten steps you take from this door after 
supper, you will know ; for the greatest folly any 
man commits, is to believe that a secret will be 
kept which is known to more than one person. 
But for the next hour we will forget all such 
things. Make yourself at ease : frankness never 
displeases me: discretion, even against myself, 
always pleases me. Now let us talk of other 
matters. I have gained an appetite, by-the-way, 
and am wondering, what they will give me for 
supper. I will bet you a link of this gold chain 
against that little ring upon your finger, that we 
have lark pies, and wine of Gatinois ; f )r, on my 
life and soul, I know nothing else that Pithiviers 
is famous for — except blankets ; odds, my life, 1 
forgot blankets, and this is not weather to forget 
them. Prythee, throw a log on the fire, boy, and 
let us make ourselves as warm as two old Flem- 
ish women on Martinmas eve. But here comes 
the supper.” 

He was not right, however. It was the same 
attendant whom Jean Charost had before seen, 
that now returned and whispered a word or two 
in his lord’s ear. 

“ Ha!” said the stranger, starting up. “ Who 
is with her? Our good fiuend ?” 


AGNES SOREL. 


45 


“No,” replied the other. “He has gone on, 
for a couple of days, to Blois, and she has no one 
with her but a young lady and the Varletry.” 

“ Beseech her to come in and partake our hum- 
ble meal,” cried the other, in a gay tone. “ Tell 
her I have a young guest to sup with me, who 
will entertain her young companion while I do 
my devoir toward herself. But tell her we lay 
aside state, and that she condescends to sup with 
plain John of Valois. Ah, my young friend ! you 
have it now, have you?” he continued, looking 
shrewdly at Jean Charost, who had fallen into a 
fit of thought. “ Well — well, let no knowledge 
spoil merriment. We will be gay to-night, what- 
ever comes to-morrow.” < 

Almost as he spoke, the door was again thrown 
open, and fair Madame De Giac entered, follow- 
ed by the young girl whom Jean Charost had 
seen at Juvisy. 



CHAPTER XVI. 


Two sei'vants, one an elderly, grave, and silent 
personage, with the air of knowing much and 
saying little, which is the proper characteristic 
of experienced serving-men ; the other a sharp, 
acute young varleton, with eyes full of meaning 
and fun, which seemed to read a running com- 
mentary upon all he heard and saw, waited upon 
the guests at supper. With simple good sense 
Jean Charost took things as he found them, with- 
out inquiring into matters which did not imme- 
diately affect himself. Whatever rank and sta- 
tion he might mentally assign to his entertainer, 
he merely treated him according to the station 
he had assigned himself, with perfect politeness 
and respect, but with none of the subservient 
civility of a courtier. 

Madame De Giac, upon her part, taking the 
hint which had been sent to her, at once cast off 
all restraint more completely than Jean Charost 
thought quite becoming, especially in the pres- 
ence of her young companion. But she noticed 
him personally with a gay smile and a nod of 
the head, and he saw that she spoke in a whis- 
per afterward with her entertainer. The young 
girl greeted him kindly, likewise, and the meal 
passed in gay and lively talk, not unseasoned 
with a fully sufficient quantity of wine. Now 
the wine of Gatinois has effects very like itself, 
of a light, sparkling, exhilarating kind, producing 
not easily any thing like drunkenness, but ele- 
vating gently and brightly, even in small por- 
tions. The effect is soon over, it is true; but 
the consequences are not so unpleasant as those 
of beverages of a more heady quality, and the 
high spirits generated are like the sparkling bub- 
ble on the cup, soon gone, leaving nothing but a 
tranquil calm behind them. 

“ How is our friend, Louis of Valois?” asked 
Madame De Giac, with a gay laugh, when the 
meal was nearly ended. “ He was in unusual 
high spirits when we met you and him. Monsieur 
De Charost, at the Abbey of Juvisy.” 

“His spirits, madame, were like the cream 
upon your glass,” replied Jean Charost; “too 
sparkling to last long. He has been very ill 
since.” 

“ Ha!” said their entertainer, with a sudden 
start. “ III! Has he been ill? Is he better?” 

“I trust he i.s, sir,” answered Jean Charost, 
somewhat dryly. “ Better in .some respects he 
certainly is.’ 


There was a something — perhaps we might 
call it an instinct — which led the young gentle- 
man to believe that tidings of the duke’s illness 
would not be altogether disagreeable to the per- 
sonage who sat opposite to him, and to say truth, 
he was unwilling to gratify him by any detailed 
account. The other seemed, however, not to in- 
terest himself very deeply in the matter; that 
topic was soon dropped; and Madame De Giac 
and tlie stranger continued talking together in 
an under tone, sometimes laughing gayly, some- 
times conversing earnestly, but seeming almost 
to forget, in the freedom of their demeanor to- 
ward each other, the presence of the two younger 
people, who made up the party of four. 

Between Jean Charost and his fair companion 
the conversation, strange to say, was much graver 
than between their elders. It too, however^as 
carried on in a low tone, and, in fact, the p^ty 
was thus completely divided into two for some 
time. 

“ I wish I were out of this companionship,” 
said the fair Agnes, at length; “Madame De Giac 
is far too wise a woman for me. Experience of 
the world, I suppose, must come, but I would 
fain have it come piece by piece, and not whole- 
sale.” 

“ Do you think it so evil a thing, then ?” asked 
Jean Charost. 

“ I do not know,” answered the girl ; “ and 
we are often afraid of what we do not know. 
Did you ever plunge into a stream or a lake, 
and stand hesitating for a minute on the bank, 
wishing you could tell how cold the water would 
be? Well, it is so with me, standing on the brink 
of the world into which I am destined to jy.unge. 
I am quite sure the waters thereof will not be as 
warm as my own heart; but I would know how 
cold they are — enough merely to refresh, or 
enough to chill me.” 

W e need not pursue the conversation on these 
themes further. The meal concluded, and the 
table was cleared. The enteiJainer said some- 
thing in a low tone to his fair companion, and 
she answered with a coquettish air, 

“ Not yet — not yet. Find something to amuse 
us for another hour. Have you no fool — no jon- 
gleur — no minstrel — nothing to wile away the 
time ?” 

“Faith, I came badly provided,” replied the 
other, “ not knowing what happy fortune was 
prepared for me on the road. But I will see — I 
will see what can be done. The people will 
bring in comfits, surely, and I will ask what the 
town can afford.” 

A few minutes after, the servants returned, as 
he expected, with some dried fruits, and wine 
of a higher quality, and the stranger asked a 
question or two in a whisper, to which the other 
replied in the same tone. 

“An astrologer!” rejoined the first; “an as- 
trologer! That will do admirably. We will all 
have our fortunes told. Go for him quietly, and 
mind, betray no secrets. I hope every one here, 
as in duty bound, has the houi% and day, and 
minute of his birth by heart. Your godfathers 
and godmothers have failed sadly if they have 
neglected this essential point of information. 
For my own part, I have had my horoscope so 
often drawn, that if all the misfortunes befall 
me which have been prognosticated, I shall need 
to live to the age of Methuselah to get them all 
into one life, to say nothing of being killed five 
different times in five different manners.” 


46 


AGNES SOREL. 


Every one smiled, but none felt convinced that 
the spenker doubted the truth of the predictions 
at which he scoffed; for it was a habit in those 
times, as well as in most others, for men to pre- 
tend want of belief in that which they believe 
most firmly, nnd a trust in judicial astrology was 
almost as essential a point of faith as a reliance 
in any of the blessed Virgins which were then 
scattered through the various towns of Europe. 
No one denied that he was furnished with all the 
dates for having his destiny accurately read by 
the stars, and only one person present showed 
any reluctance to hear the words of destiny from 
the lips of the astrologer. Strange to say, that 
one was the gay, bold, dashing Madame De 
Giac, who seemed actually fearful of learning 
the secrets of the future. / In all hollow hearts 
ther-e are dark recesses, the treasured things of 
which are watched over with miserly fear, lest 
any eye should see them and drag them to the 
light. 

Sfi^ objected, in a sportive tone, indeed, but 
with a wandering and timid look, sometimes pet- 
tishly declai'ing that she positively would not 
consent to have all the misfortunes of life dis- 
played before her ere their time, and sometimes 
laughingly asserting that her noble lord hated 
astrologers, and that, therefore, she was bound 
to have nothing to do with them. 

Tlie conduct of their entertainer, however, 
puzzled and surprised Jean Charost more than 
her reluctance. They were evidently friends of 
old date-r— perhaps something more ; and during 
the whole evening he had been paying her every 
soft and tender attention with a gallantry some- 
what too open and barefaced. Now, however, 
he first laughed and jested with her, insisting, in 
gay and lively tones, but with his eyes fixed upon 
her ke^pnly, and almost sternly, and then ceased 
all tone of entreaty, and used very unlover-like 
words of command. A reddish spot came into 
his cheek too, and a dark frown upon his brow ; 
and his last words were, as some steps sounded 
along the passage, “You must, and you shall,” 
uttered in a low, hoarse voice, which seemed to 
come from the very depth of his chest. 

The next instant, the attendant entered with a 
man dressed in a very peculiar manner. He was 
small, mean-looking, aged, and miserably thin, 
with a beard as white as snow, but eyebrows as 
black as ink. All the features were pinched and 
attenuated, and the shriveled skin pale and cadav- 
erous; but the face was lighted up by a pair of 
quick, sharp, intensely black eyes, that ran like 
lightning over every object, and seemed to gain 
intelligence from all they saw. He wore a black 
gown, open in front, but tied round the middle 
by a silver cord. His feet were bare and san- 
daled, and on his head he had a wide black caj), 
from the right side of which fell a sort of scarf 
crossing the right shoulder, and passing under 
the girdle on the left hip. A small dagger in a 
silver sheath, a triangle, and a circle of the same 
metal, and an instrument consisting of a tube 
with a glass at either end — the germ of the fu- 
ture telescope — hung in loops from his belt, and 
with a large wallet, or escarcelle, completed his 
equipment. 

On entering the room, the astrologer saluted 
no one, and moved not his bonnet from his head, 
but advanced calmly into the midst of the little 
cii’cle with an air which gave dignity even to his 
small and insignificant figure, and, looking round 
from face to face, said, in a sweet but verv oierc- 


ing voice, “ Here I am. What do you want with 
me ?” 

There was very little revererce in his tone, 
and Jean Charost’s companion of the way re- 
plied, with an air of some haughtiness, “ Sir wise 
man, you do not know us, or you would wait to 
hear our pleasure. You shall learn what we want 
with you very speedily, however.” 

“ Pardon, your highness,” r eplied the astrolo- 
ger; “I know you all. But your men might 
show more revererrce to science, and not drag 
me, like a culprit, from rny studies, even at the 
command of John, duke of Burgundy.” 

“ Ah ! the fools have beerr prating,” said the 
duke, with a laugh ; but the astrologer arrswered 
quickly, “ The star’s have beerr pr ating, your 
highness, though your men have held their peace. 
Before you set foot in this town, I knew and 
told many persons that you would be hei'e this 
day; that you would meet with an accident by 
the way, and be saved from it by the servant of 
an enemy. Ask, and satisfy yourself. There 
are people in this very house who heard me.” 

“The servant of an enemy!” repeated the 
Duke of Burgundy, thoughtfully, and rrfiling his 
eyes with a sort of suspicious glance toward 
Jean Charost. “ The servant of an enemy ! But 
never mind that; we have eaten salt together.” 

“ I said not an enemy, but the servant of an 
enemy,” rejoined the astrologer. “You and he 
best know whether I am right or not.” 

“ I think not,” replied Jean Charost. “ The 
Duke of Orleans has given his hand to his high- 
ness of Burgundy, and he is not a man to play 
false with any one.” 

“ Well spoken, good youth,” answered the 
duke. “I believe you from my heart;” but 
still there was a frown upon his brow, and, as 
if to conceal what he felt, he turned again to the 
astrologer, bidding him commence his prediction. 

“ My lord the duke,” replied the astrologer, 
“ the hour and moment of your nativity are well 
known to me ; but it is very useless repeating to 
you what others have told you before. Some 
little variation I might make by more or less ac- 
curate observation of the stars ; but the variation 
could but be small, and why should I repeat to 
you unpleasant truths. You will triumph over 
most of your enemies and over many of your 
friends. You will be the arbiter of the fortunes 
of France, and affect the fate of England. You 
will make a great name, rather than a good one ; 
and you will die a bloody death.” 

“ That matters not,” replied the duke. “ Ev- 
ery brave man would rather fall on the field of 
battle than die lingering in a sick-chamber, like 
a hound in his kennel.” 

“ I said not on the field of battle,” answered 
the astrologer. “ That I will not undertake to 
say, and from the si^ns I do not think it.” 

“ Well, well, it skills not,” answered the duke, 
impatiently. “ It is enough that I shall survive 
my enemies.” 

“Not all of them,” said the astrologer; “not 
all of them.” 

The duke waved his hand for him to stop; 
and, pointingto Madame De Giac, exclaimed, with 
a somewhat rude and discourteous laugh, “ Here, 
tell this lady her destiny. She is frightened out 
of her wits at the thought of hearing it; but, by 
the Lord, I wish to hear it myself, for she has a 
strange art of linking the fate of other people to 
her own.” 

“ She has, indeed,” replied the astrologer. 


AGNES SOREL. 


47 


‘‘ Methinks when she was bom,” said the 
duke, laughing, “Venus must have been in the 
house of Mars.” 

“Your highness does not understand the sci- 
ence,” said the astrologer, dryly. “ Madame, 
might I ask the date of your nativity?” 

In a faltering tone, Madame De Giac gave him 
the particulars he required, and he then took 
some written tables from his wallet, and exam- 
ined them attentively. 

“It is a fortunate destiny,” he said, “to be 
loved by many — to retain their love — to succeed 
in most undertakings. Madame, be satisfied, and 
ask no more.” 

“Oh, I ask nothing,” replied Madame De Giac. 
“’Twas but to please the duke.” 

“But I must ask something,” said the duke; 
and, drawing the astrologer somewhat aside, he 
whispered a question in his ear, while Madame 
De Giac’s bright eyes fixed upon them eagerly. 

To whatever was the duke’s question, the as- 
trologer replied, aloud, “ As much as'she possi- 
bly can,” and the fair lady sank back in her chair 
with a look of relief, though the answer might 
possibly bear several meanings. 

The duke’s face was more cheerful, however, 
when he turned round ; and, pointing to Madame 
De Giac’s young companion, he said, “ Come, let 
us have some happy pi ediction in her favor.” 

The astrologer gazed at her with a look of 
some interest, and so earnestly that the color 
rose in her cheek, and a certain fiuttering grace 
of expression passed-over her countenance, which 
made it look, for the first time, to the eyes of 
Jean Charost quite beautiful, foreshadowing 
what she was afterward to become. She made 
no hesitation, however, in telling the day, hour, 
and minute of her birth, and the astrologer con- 
sulted his tables again; but still paused in silence 
for a iiioment or two, though the Duke of Bur- 
gundy exclaimed more than once, “ Speak — 
speak !” 

“ My science is either wrong,” the astrologer 
said, at length, “ or thine is, indeed, an extraor- 
dinary destiny. Till nineteen years have passed 
over thy head, all is quiet and peaceful. Then 
come some influences, not malign, but threaten- 
ing. Some evil will befall thee which would be 
ruinous to others; but thy star triumphs still, and 
rises out of the clouds of the seventh house in 
conjunction with Mars, also in the ascendant. 
From that hour, too, the destiny of France is 
united with thine own. Mighty monarchs and 
great wairiors shall bow before thee. Queens 
shall seek thy counsel, and even those thou hast 
wronged shall cling to thee for aid and for sup- 
port.” 

“ Oh, no — no,” exclaimed Agnes, stretching 
foi'th her beaiitifid hands, with a look and atti- 
tude of exquisite grace. “ I will wrong no one. 
Tell me not that I will wrong any one; it is not 
in my nature — can it be my destiny?” 

“ One wrong,” replied the astrologer, “ re- 
paired by many a noble act. But I see more 
still. France shall have cause to bless thee. A 
comet — a fiery comet — shoots forth across the 
sky, portendi)ig evil ; but thy star rules it, and 
the evil falls upon the enemies of France. The 
comet disappears in fire, and thy star still shines 
out in the ascendant, bright, and calm, and tri- 
umphant to the end. But the end comes too 
soon — alas! too soon.” 

“ So be it,” said the young girl, in a tranquil 
tone'. “ Life, I think, must be feeling. I would 


not outlive one joy, one power, one hope. So 
be it, I say. Death is not what I fear, but wrong. 
Oil, 1 will never commit a wrong.” 

“ Then, pretty maid, you will be more than 
mortal,” said the Duke of Burgundy; “for we 
all of us do wrong sometimes, and often are 
oliliged to do so that great good may spring out 
ol small evil.” 

Agnes was silent, and the astrologer turned 
to .lean Charost, who readily told him all he de- 
sired to know; for such was the general faith in 
judicial astrology at that time in France, that no 
man was left ignorant by his parents of the {)i e- 
cise hour and minute of his birth, in order that 
the stars might be at any time consulted, in case 
of need. 

The astrologer smiled kindly on him, but .Tohn 
of Burgundy asked, impatiently, “ What say yon, 
man of the stars, is this youth’s fate any way 
connected with mine ?” 

“ It is, prince,” replied the astrologer. “ It 
has been once; it shall be again. I find it writ- 
ten that he shall save you from some danger ; 
that he shall suffer for your acts ; that he shall be 
faithful to all who trust him; that he shall be 
present at your death; and try, but try in vain, 
to save you.” 

“Good!” said the duke, in a musing tone. 
Good!” And then he added, in a lower voice, 
as if speaking to himself, “ I will let him go, 
then.” 

The words reached .lean Charost’s ears, and, 
for the first time, he comprehended that he had 
)un some risk that night. Although somewhat 
inexperienced in the world, he was well aware 
that the caprices of princes, and of the lavored 
(if the earth, are not easy to be ^calculated ;^an(l 
he would have given a great deal to be out of 
that room, notwithstanding the pleasant evening 
he had spent therein. To show any thing like 
alarm or haste, however, he knew well might 
frustrate his own purpose*; and, affecting as much 
ease as possible, he conversed with his young 
companion and the astrologer, while the Duke 
of Burgundy spoke a word or two in the usual 
low tone to Madame De Giac. W’dat the treach- 
erous woman suggested might be difficult to tell 
exactly, but only a few moments had elapsed 
when the elder attendant, who had before aj)- 
peared, re-entered the room, saying, “ This young 
gentleman’s lackey is importunate to see him, 
and will take no denial.” 

Jean Charost instantly rose, saying, “ It is 
time, then, that I should humbly take my leave, 
yoHir highness. I knew not that it was so late.” 

“ Nay, 'stay a while,” said the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, with a very doubtful smile. “ This bright 
lady tells me that you are an intimate of my fair 
cousin the Duke of Orleans, and that it is proba- 
ble you go upon some occasion of his. Good 
faith ! you must tell me before you depart whilh 
er you go, and for what pur[)ose.” 

“Your highness will, I am sure, demand nei- 
ther,” replied Jean Charost. “ Hosi)itality is a 
princely quality, but has its laws; and gratitude 
for small services well becomes the Duke of 
Burgundy far too much for him either td detain 
or to interrogate a bumble servant of his cousin 
the Duke of Orleans. As for the lady’s informa- 
tion, she makes a slight mistake. I am his high- 
ness’s servant, not his intimate; and cerlainlv 
her intimacy with him, if I may judge from all 
appearances, is greater than my own.” 

The Duke of Burgundy turned a (piick and ir- 


48 


AGNES SOREL. 


ritable glance upon Madame De Giac ; but Jean 
Charost had made a great mistake. We never 
render ourselves any service by rendering a dis- 
service to one whom another loves. It was a 
young man’s error ; but he well divined that the 
fair marchioness had prompted the duke to de- 
tain him, and thinking to alarm her by a hint of 
what he had seen at Juvisy, he had gone beyond 
the proper limit, and made a dangerous enemy. 

After he had spoken, the young secretary took 
a step toward the door; but the Duke of Bur- 
gundy’s voice was instantly heard saying, in a 
cold, stern, despotic tone, Not so fast, young 
man. Stay where you are, if you please.” Then 
putting his hand upon his brow, he remained 
musing for a moment, and said, still thoughtfully. 

We must know your errand.” 

“ From me, never, sir,” replied Jean Charost. 

“ Boy, you are bold,” thundered forth the duke, 
with his eyes flashing. 

“ I am so, your highness,” replied Jean Cha- 
rost, in a voice perfectly firm, but with a respect- 
ful manner, “ because I stand in the presence of 
a prince bearing a high name. I know he has 
concluded treaties of friendship and alliance with 
my royal master of Orleans, and l am confident 
that he will never even think of forcing from his 
kinsman’s servant one word regarding his due 
and honorable service. You have heard what 
this good man has said, that I am faithful to those 
1 serve. Were I your servant, I would sacrifice 
my life sooner than reveal to any other your se- 
crets committed to my charge; and though, in 
truth, my business now is very simple, yet, as I 
have no permission to reveal it, I will reveal it to 
no one ; nor do I believe you will ask me. Such, 

I klio w, woult^ be the conduct of the Duke of 
Orleans toward you ; such, I am sure, will be 
your conduct toward him.” 

“P'ool! You are no judge of the conduct of 
princes,” replied the duke; and then, for a mo- 
ment or two, he remained silent, gnawing his lip, 
with his brow knit, and his eyes cast down. 

A low, sweet voice, close by Jean Charost, 
whispered timidly, “ Do not enrage him. When 
too much crossed, he is furious.” 

“ Well,” said the duke, at length, “ I will not 
force you, young man. Doubtless you are mak- 
ing a mystery where there is none; and by re- 
fusing to answer a very simple question, which 
any prince might ask of another’s messenger — 
especially,” he added, with a grim smile, “ where 
there is such love as between my cousin of Or- 
leans and myself — you have almost caused me to j 
believe that there is some secret machination ' 
against me. Go your ways, however ; and thank 
your good stars that sent you to help me out of I 
the quagmire, or your ears might have been | 
somewhat shorter before you left this room.” 

The young man’s cheek glowed warmly, and 
his lips quivered ; but the same sweet voice whis- 
pered, “ Answer not. But leave not the town 
to-night. Conceal yourself somewhere till day- 
light. You wall be followed if you go.” 

Jean Charost took no apparent notice; but 
bowing low to the Duke of Burgundy, who turned 
away his eyes with haughty coldness, and inclin- 
ing his head to Madame De Giac, who looked full 
at him with her sweet, serpent smile, he quitted 
the room with a calm, firm step, and the attend- 
ant closed the door behind him. 

As soon as he was gone, the duke exclaimed, 
with a low. bitter laugh, “ On my life ! he lords 
it as if he were of the blood royal.” 


“ Honesty is better than royal blood,” said the 
astrologer. 

“ How now, charlatan!” cried the duke, turn- 
ing fiercely upon him ; but then, his thoughts 
flowing suddenly in a different direction, he gazed 
upon the young lady from beneath his bent brows, 
saying, “What was it you whispered to him, 
fair maid ?” 

“ Simply to be cautious, and not to enrage your 
highness needlessly,” replied Agnes, with the 
color slightlv mounting in her cheek. 

“ By my faith, he needed such a caution,” re- 
joined the prince ; and then, turning to the as- 
trologer, he asked, “ What was it you said about 
his being present at my death?” 

“ I said, sir, that in years to come,” the astrol- 
oger replied — “long years, I trust — that youth 
would be present at your death, and try to avert 
it.” 

Burgundy mused for a moment, and then mut- 
tered, with a low laugh, “ Well, it may be so. 
But tell us, good man, what foundation have we 
for faith in your predictions ? Are you a man of 
note among your tribe ?” 

“ Of no great note, sir,” answered the astrolo- 
ger; “yet not altogether unknown, either. I 
was once astrologer to the city of Tours ; but 
they offended me there, and I left them. I am, 
however, one of the astrologers of the court of 
France — have my appointment in due form, and 
have my salary of a hundred and twenty livres. 
This shows that I am no tyro in my art. But we 
trust not to any fame gained at the present. Oinr 
predictions extend over long years, and our re- 
nown is the sport of a thousand accidents. Men 
forget them ere they are verified, or connect not 
the accomplishment with the announcement. 
Often, very often too, we are passed from the 
earth, and our names hardly remembered, when 
the events we have prognosticated are fulfilled. 
I have told you the truth, however, and you will 
find it so. When you do, remember me.” 

“ Well, well,” said the duke, in his abrupt, im- 
patient manner; and then turning to the attend- 
ant, he said, “Take him away. Bid Monsieur 
De Villon give him four crowns of gold. Tell 
Peter, and Godet, and Jaillou to get their horses 
ready. I have business for them. Then return 
to me. I shall rest early to-night, and would 
have the house kept quiet.” 

While the attendant conducted the astrologer 
from the room, the duke spoke, for a moment or 
two, in a low and familiar tone with Madame De 
Giac, and then, resuming his stateliness, bowed 
courteously to her, but somewhat coldly to her 
young companion, and, opening the door for them 
with his own hands, suffered them to pass out. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Human weaknesses and human follies, human 
vices and human crimes, ai’e undoubtedly veiy 
excellent and beneficial things. It may seem 
paradoxical to say that the fact of one man cut- 
ting another man’s throat, or of another ruining 
a friend’s peace, robbing him of his fortune, or 
depriving him of his honor, can have any bene- 
ficial result whatsoever ; or that the cunning, the 
selfishness, the credulity, the ignorance, the fa- 
naticism, the prejudice, the vanity, the absurdity 
or the passion of the many millions who at vari- 
ous times have exhibited themselves with such 


AGNES SOREL. 


49 


appendages about them, should have conferred 
boons upon the whole or any part of society. 
And yet, dearly beloved reader, I am not at all 
sore that — considering man’s nature as man’s na- 
ture is, and looking at society as I see it consti- 
tuted around me — I am not at all sure, I say, that 
the very greatest crimes that ever were commit- 
ted have not produced a greater sum of enjoy- 
ment and of what people vulgarly term happi- 
oess, than they have inflicted pain or discomfort 
—that is to say, as far as this world is concern- 
ed : I don’t deal with another. 

Not very fond am I of painting disagreeable 
■pictures of human nature ; but yet one can not 
shut one’s eyes ; and if it has been our misfortune 
to be in any spot or neighborhood where some- 
thing very wicked has been perpetrated, the 
sums of pleasure and of pain produced are forced 
into the two scales, where we may weigh them 
both together, if we choose but to raise the bal- 
ance. Take the worst case that ever was known; 
a murder which has deprived a happy family — 
four young children and an amiable wife — of a fa- 
ther and a husband — poor things, they must have 
sufiered sadly, and the father not a little, while 
his brains were being knocked out. ’Tis a great 
amount of evil, doubtless. But now let us look 
at the other side of the account. While they are 
weeping, one near neighbor is telling tlie whole 
to another near neighbor, and both are in that 
high state of ecstasy which is called a terrible ex- 
citement. They are horrified, very true ; but, 
say what they will, they are enjoying it exceed- 
ingly. It has stirred up for them the dull pond 
of life, and broken up the duckweed on the top. 
Nor is the enjoyment confined to them. Every 
man, woman, and child in the village has his 
share of it. Not only that, but wider and wider, 
through enlarging circles round, newspapers 
thrive on it, tea-tables delight in it, and multi- 
tudes rejoice in the “Barbarous Murder!” that 
has lately been committed. I say nothing of the 
lawyers, the constables, the magistrates, the cor- 
oner. I say nothing of the augmented gratuities 
to the one, or the increased importance of the 
other ; of the thousands who grin and gape with 
delight at the execution ; but I speak merely of 
the pleasure afibrded to multitudes by the act it- 
self, and the report thereof. Nor is this mei'ely 
a circle spreading round on one plane, such as is 
produced by a stone dropped into the water, but 
it is an augmenting globe, the increment of which 
is infinite. The act of the criminal is chronicled 
for all time, affords enjoyment to remote poster- 
ity, and benefits a multitude of the unborn gen- 
eration. The newspaper has it first ; the romance 
writer takes it next ; it is a .subject for the poet — 
a field for the philosopher ; and adds a leaf to the 
garland of the tragic dramatist. 

What would the world have done if Macbeth 
had not murdered Duncan, or (Edipus had not 
done a great many things too disagreeable to 
mention ? 

This is a wicked world, undoubtedly; but, 
nevertheless, the most virtuous enjoy its wicked- 
ness very much, in some shape or another. 

The above is my short excuse for deviating 
from my usual course, as I am about to do, and 
betraying, as I must, some of the little secret 
tricks of a science of great gravity practiced in 
former days by bearded men, but now fallen into 
the hands of old women and Egyptians. 

Jean Charost, in issuing forth from the Duke 
of Burgundy’s presence, found Martin Grille in a 
D 


deplorable state of anxiety concerning him, and, 
to say the truth, not without cause. It was in 
vain, however, that the poor man endeavored tc 
draw his young master into some secret corner, 
to confer with him apart. The whole house was 
occupied by the attendants of the Duke of Bur 
gundy or of Madame De Giac ; and, although the 
young secretary felt some need of thought and 
counsel, he soon saw that the only plan open to 
him was to mount his horse as speedily as possi- 
ble and quit the inn. Armand Chauvin, the 
courier or chevaucheur of the Duke of Orleans, 
was sitting in the wide hall of the inn, with a 
pot of wine before him, apparently taking note 
of nothing, but, in I'eality, listening to and re-- 
marking every thing that passed ; and toward 
him Jean Charost advanced, after having spoken, 
a single word to Martin Grille. 

“ The horses must be rested by this time, Ar- 
mand,” said the young gentleman, aloud. “ You 
had better get them ready, and let us go on.”^ 

“ Certainly, sir,”^ replied the man, rising at 
once ; and then, quickly passing by the young 
gentleman, he added, in a whisper, “ They are 
saddled and bridled ; follow quick. The horse- 
boys are paid.’^ 

Jean Charost paused for a moment, spoke a 
word or two, in a quiet tone, to Martin Grille, 
with the eyes of a dozen men, in all sorts of dress- 
es, npon them, and then sauntered out to the 
door of the inn. The stable was soon reached, 
the horses soon mounted, and, in less than five 
minutes after he had quitted the presence of the 
Duke of Burgundy, Jean Charost was once more 
upon the road to Blois. 

Twice the young gentleman looked back up 
the street in the clear moonlight. Nobody was 
seen following ; but he could hear some loud 
calls, as if from the stables of the inn, and tuim- 
ing to the courier, he said, “ I fear our horses are 
not in fit case to ride a race to-night.” 

“ I think not, sir,” replied the man, briefly. 
“We had better get out of the town, and then 
turn into a wood.” 

“ I know a better plan than that,” replied Mar- 
tin Grille. “ Let us turn down here by the back 
of the town, and take refuge in the house of the^ 
astrologer. He will give us refuge for the night,, 
and the duke departs by sunrise to-morrow.” 

“ Do you know him ?” demanded Jean Cha- 
rost. “ I thought you had never been in Pithi- 
viers before.” 

“ Nor have I,” replied the man. “ But I’ll tell 
you all about it by-and-by. He will give us lodg- 
ing, I will answer for it — hide us in his cabinet 
of the spheres, among his other curiosities, and 
those who seek will seek for us in vain. But 
there is no timp to be lost. Mine is the best 
plan, depend upon it.” 

“ Perhaps it is,” replied Jean Charost, turning 
his horse’s head. “ We might be overtaken ere 
we could reach any other place of concealment. 
My horse moves as if his joints were frozen. 
Come on. Monsieur Chauvin. Do you know the 
house, Martin?” 

“ Well, sir — right well,” replied the valet. 
“ Hark ! I hear horses stamping and riding on,, 
down a side street, he turned back to the east, 
passing along between the old decayed wall and 
the houses of the suburb. 

Little was said as they rode, for every ear waa 
on the alert to catch any sounds from the maia 
street, lest, mayhap, their course should be traced , 
and they should be followed. 


VGNES SOREL. 


oi) 

It is hardly possible for any one in the present 
day — at least for any dweller in the moi’e civil- 
ized parts of earth, where order is the rule and 
disorder the exception — to form any correct idea 
of those times in France, when order was the ex- 
ception, and disorder the rule ; when no man set 
out upon a journey without being prepared for 
attack and defense ; when the streets of a great 
city were in themselves perilous places; when 
one’s own house might, indeed, be a castle, but 
required to be as carefully watched and guarded 
as a fortress, and when the life of every day was 
full of open and apparent danger — when, in 
short, there was no such thing as peace on earth, 
or good-will among men. Yet it is wonderful 
how calmly people bore it, how much they look- 
ed upon it as a matter of course, how much less 
anxiety or annoyance it occasioned them. Just 
as an undertaker becomes familiar with images 
of death, and strangely intimate with the corpses 
which he lays out and buries, jokes with his as- 
sistant in the awful presence of the dead, and 
takes his pot of beer, or glass of spirits, seated on 
the coffin, with the link of association entirely 
cut by habit, and no reference of the mind be- 
tween his fate and the fate of him whom he in- 
ters ; so men, by the effect of custom, went 
through hourly peril in those times, saw every 
sort of misery, sorrow, and injustice inflicted on 
others, and very often endured them themselves, 
merely as a matter of course, a part of the busi- 
ness of the day. 

I do not, and I will not pretend, therefore, that 
Jean Charost felt half the annoyance or appre- 
hension that any one of modern flays would ex- 
perience, could he be carried back some four or 
five centuries ; but he did feel considerable anx- 
iety, not so much lest his own throat should be 
■cut, though that was quite within the probabili- 
ties of the case, as lest he should be seized, and 
the letters of the Duke of Orleans which he bore 
taken from him. That anxiety was considera- 
3jly aggravated, as he rode along,' by hearing a 
good deal of noise from the streets on the right, 
orders and directions delivered in loud tones, the 
jingle of arms, and the dull beat of horses’ hoofs 
tipon ground covered by harflened snow. For a 
moment or two it was doubtful whether the pur- 
suers — if pursuers they were — would or would 
not discover that he bad quitted the highway 
and follow on his track ; but at length Armand 
Chauvin, who had hardly spoken a word, said, 
in a tone of some relief, “ They have passed by 
the turning. They will have a long ride for their 
pains. Heaven bless them with a snow-shower, 
and freeze them to the saddle !” 

“ There’s the house, sir,” said Martin Grille, 
pointing .to a building of considerable size, the 
back of which stood out toward the dilapidated 
■wall somewhat beyond the rest, with a stone 
tower in the extreme rear, and a light burning 
in one of the windows. 

“ I should like to hear how you know all about 
:this place. Master Martin,” replied his young 
master, “ and whether you can insure me really 
a good reception.” 

“ That I’ll answer for — that I’ll answer for,” 
'Cried Martin Grille, gayly. ‘‘Oh, you men of 
ibattle and eqiutation can’t do every thing. We 
people of peace and policy sometimes have our 
share in the affairs of life. This way, sir — this 
way. The back door into the court is the best. 
On my life ! if I were to turn astrologer any 
where, it should be at Pithiviers. They nourish 


him gayly, don’t they ? Every man from sixty 
downward, and every woman from sixteen up- 
ward, must have their horoscope drawn three 
times a day, to keep our friend of the astrolabe 
in such style as this?” 

As he spoke, he rode up to a pair of great 
wooden gates in the wall, and dismounting from 
his horse, pushed them open. Bending their 
heads a little, for the arch was not very high, 
Jean Charost and the chevaucheur rode into a 
very handsome court-yard, surrounded on three 
sides by buildings, and having at one corner the 
tower which they had before observed. Martin 
Gi-ille followed, carefully closed the gates, and 
fastened them with a wooden bar which lay near, 
to prevent any one obtaining as easy access as 
himself. Then advancing to a small back door, 
he knocked gently with his hand, and almost in> 
mediately a pretty servant girl appeared with a 
light. 

“Ah, my pretty demoiselle! here I am again, 
and have brought this noble young gentleman to 
consult the learned doctor,” said Martin Grille, 
as soon as he saw her. “ Is he at home now ?” 

“ No, kind sir,” answered the girl, giving a co- 
quettish glance at Jean Charost and his compan- 
ion. “ Two rude men came and dragge*d him 
away from his supper almost by force ; but I dare 
say he will not be long gone.” 

“ Then we will come in and wait,” said Mar- 
tin Grille. “ Where can we put our horses this 
cold night?” 

The girl seemed to hesitate, although her own 
words had certainly led the way to Martin’s pro- 
posal. “ I don’t know where to put you or your 
horses either,” she said, at length ; “ for there is 
a gentleman waiting, and it is not every one who 
comes to consult the doctor that wishes to be 
seen. Pedro the Moor, too, is out getting in- 
formation about the town ; so that I have no one 
to ask what to do.” 

“ Well, we don’t want to be seen either,” re- 
plied Martin Grille; “so we will just put our 
horses under that shed, and go into the little 
room where the doctor casts his nativities.” 

“ But he’s in there — he’s in there,” said the 
girl ; “ the tall, meagre man with the wild look, 
I put him in there because there’s nothing he 
could hurt. No, no ; you fasten up your horses, 
and then come into the great hall. I think the 
man is as mad as a March hare. You can hear 
him quite plain in the hall ; never still for a mo- 
ment.” 

The girl’s plan was, of course, followed ; and, 
passing through a low and narrow door, arched 
with stone, according to the fashion of those days, 
Jean Charost and his two companions were ush- 
ered into a large room, from the end of which 
two other doors led to different parts of the 
building. 

The maid left the lamp which she carried to 
give the strangers some light, but the greater 
part of the room remained in obscurity ; nor, 
probably, would it have exhibited any thing very 
interesting to the eyes of Jean Charost; for all 
the walls seemed to be covered with illuminated 
pieces of vellum, each figuring the horoscope of 
some distinguished man long dead. Those of 
Charlemagne, Pope Benedict the Eighth, Julius 
Caisar, Alexander the Great, Homer, and Duns 
Scotus, were all within the rays of the lamp, and 
the young secretary looked no further, but. turn- 
ing to Martin Grille, asked once more, but in a 
low tone, how he happened to have made him- 


AGNES 

self acquainted so thoroughly with the astrolo- 
ger’s house and habits. 

“ Why bless you, sir,” replied the lackey, 
when I saw you carried off by a man I knew 
nothing about, and found myself in an inn where 
not even the landlord would tell who his guests 
were, I got frightened, and as it is a part of 
my business to know every thing that may be 
of service to you, I bethought me how I might 
best get information. As eveiy town in France 
has its astrologer, either official or accidental, I 
determined I would find him out, and I seduced 
one of the marmitons to show me the way hither 
for a bribe of two sous. Very little had I in my 
pocket to consult an astrologer with ; but we Pa- 
risians have a way of bartering one piece of news 
for another ; and as information regarding every 
body and every thing is what an astrologer is al- 
ways in search of, I trucked the tidings of your 
arrival at the auberge for the name of the great 
man whose servants had possession of the inn. 
That frightened me still more ; but the learned 
doctor bought an account of all that had happen- 
ed to us on the road with a leathern bottle of the 
finest wine that was ever squeezed out of the 
grape, and added over and above, that Madame 
de Giac, the duke’s mistress, was expected at 
the inn, and had sent her husband away to Blois. 
That frightened me more than ever.” 

“ Why so ?” asked Jean Charost. “ Why should 
you be frightened by any of these things you 
heard ? Their highnesses of Burgundy and Or- 
leans are now in perfect amity I understand, and 
Madame de Giac, when I saw her before, seem- 
ed any thing but ill disposed toward my royal 
master.” 

‘‘ Ah ! sir,” replied Martin Grille ; “ the amity 
of princes is a ticklish thing to trust to ; and the 
friendship of a lady of many loves is somewhat 
like the affection of a spider. God send that the 
Duke of Burgundy be as well disposed to the 
royal duke as you think, and that Madame de 
Giac work no mischief between them ; for the 
one, I think, is as sincere as the other, and I 
would not trust my little finger in the power of 
either, if it served their purpose to cut it off.” 

‘‘ Nay,” answered Jean Charost; ‘‘I certainly 
do not now think that the Duke of Burgundy is 
well disposed to his highness of Orleans ; for I 
have had good reason to believe the contrary.” 

“ There is no one believes he is, but the duke 
himself,” said Armand Chauvin. " His highness 
is too frank. He rides out in a furred gown to 
meet a man armed with all pieces. But hark ! 
how that man is walking about! He must be 
troubled with some unquiet spirit.” 

All listened in silence for a moment or two, 
and a slow, heavy footfall was heard pacing 
backward and forward in the adjoining room, 
from which the hall was only separated by one 
of the doors that has been mentioned. Jean 
Charost thought that he heard a groan too, and 
there was something in the dull and solemn 
tread, unceasing and unvaried as it was, that had 
a gloomy and oppressive effect. 

No one spoke for several minutes, and the time 
of the astrologer’s return seemed long; but at 
length the steps in the adjoining room ceased, 
the door was thrown open, and a low, deep voice 
exclaimed, “ If you have returned, why do you 
keep me waiting 1 Ha ! strangers all !”_ 

The speaker, who had taken one step into the 
room, was, as the maid had described him, a tall, 
thin, gaunt man, of the middle age, with a stem. 


SOREL. 51 

wild, impetuous expression of countenance. His 
gray hair and his gray beard seemed not to have 
been trimmed for weeks, and his apparel, though 
costly, was negligently cast on. There was a 
wrinkle between his brows, so deep that one 
might have laid a finger in it, fixed and immov- 
able, as if it had grown there for years, deepen- 
ing with time. But the brow, with its heavy 
frown, seemed the only feature that remained at 
rest ; for the eye flashed and wandered, the lip 
quivered, and the nosU’ils expanded, as if there 
were an infinite multitude of emotions passing 
ever through the heart, and writing their tran- 
sient traces on the countenance as they went. 

He paused for a single moment, almost in the 
doorway, holding a lamp high in his hand, and 
glancing his eyes frojp the face of Martin Grille, 
who was next to him, to that of Armand Chau- 
vin, and then to the countenance of Jean Charost. 
As he gazed at the latter, however, a look of 
doubt, and then of recognition, came upon his 
countenance, and taking another step forward, 
he exclaimed, “Ha! young man; is that you? 
Something strange links our destiny together. I 
came hither to inquire of Fate concerning you; 
and here you are, to meet me.” 

“ I am glad to see you without your late com- 
panions, sir,” replied Jean Charost. “ I feared 
you might be in some peril.” 

“ No danger — no danger,” answered the other. 

“ They were ruffians — but what am I ? Not a 
man there but had fought under my pennon on. 
fields of honorable warfare. Wrong, injustice, ' 
baseness, ingratitude, had made gallant soldiers 
low marauders — what has the same made me — a 
demon, with hell in my heart, with hell behind 
me, and hell before !” 

He paused for an instant, and pressed his hand 
hard upon his brow ; then raising his eyes again 
to the face of Jean Charost, he said, in a tone 
more calm, but stern and commanding, “ Come 
with me, youth — I would speak with you alone ;” 
and he returned to the other chamber. 

“ For the blessed Virgin’s sake, don’t go with 
him, sir,” exclaimed Martin Grille. 

“ You had better not. Monsieur De Brecy,” 
said Armand Chauvin. “ The man seems mad.” 

“ No fear, no fear,” answered Jean Charost, 
walking toward the door. 

“ Well, give one halloo, and you shall have 
help,” said Chauvin ; and the young gentleman 
passed out and closed the door behind him. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Martin Grille looked at Armand Chauvin, 
and Armand Chauvin at Martin Grille, but neither 
spoke ; for Armand was by nature somewhat 
taciturn, and the other, though he did not ven- 
ture in the presence of the chevauchtur to piit his 
ear or his eye to the keyhole, remained listen- 
ing as near the door as possible, with a good 
deal of apprehension it is true, but still more cu- 
riosity. The conversation, however, between 
Jean Charost and the stranger commenced in a 
low tone, and gave nothing to the hall but an in- 
distinct murmur of voices. Very speedily, how- 
ever, the tones began to be raised ; Jean Charost 
himself spoke angi-ily ; but another voice almost 
drowned his, pouring forth a torrent of invec- 
tives, not upon him, it would seem ; for the only 
sentence completely heard showed that some 


52 


AGNES SOREL. 


other person was referred to. “ There is every 
sort of villain in the world,” cried the voice ; 

and he is a villain of the damnedest and the 
blackest dye. The cut-throat and the thief, the 
swindler, the traitor, are all scoundrels of their 
kind ; but what is he who — ” 

The voice fell a^ain ; and Martin Grille, turn- 
ing to his companion, grasped his arm, saying, 
“ Go in — go in. He will do him some mischief, 
I am very much afraid.” 

“ I am not so much accustomed to be afraid, 
either for myself or for other people,” answered 
Chauvm. “ The young gentleman will call out 
if he wants me.” 

Almost at the same moment, without the sound 
of any opening door from the street, the astrolo- 
ger entered the room with, a hurried step and 
somewhat disturbed look. “Ha! my friend,” he 
said, as his eyes fell on Martin Grille. “ Where 
is your young master ?” 

“Within there,” replied Martin, “with that 
other devil of a man. Don’t you hear how loud 
they are talking?” 

Without reply or ceremony, the astrologer 
opened the door leading into the other room, en- 
tered and closed it again; but during the brief 
moment of his passing in both Martin and Chau- 
vin caught a sight of the figures within. Jean 
Charost was standing with his arms crossed upon 
his chest, in an attitude of stern and manly digni- 
ty which neither of them had evBr before seen 
him assume, while the stranger, as if exhausted 
by the burst of passion to which he had given 
way, was cast negligently on a seat, his arm rest- 
ing on a table, and his head bowed down with 
the gray locks falling loose upon his forehead. 
Martin Grille felt sure he perceived large tear 
drops rolling over his cheeks ; but the door was 
closed in an instant, and he saw no more. 

From the moment of the astrologer’s entrance 
the conversation was carried on in a low tone ; 
but it lasted nearly three quarters of an hour, 
and at the end of that time the door again open- 
ed, and the three who were in the inner cham- 
ber came out into the hall. 

“ Now I am ready to go,” said Jean Charost. 
“ Unfasten the horses, Martin Grille.” 

“ I thought we were to stay here all night, 
sii-,” replied Chauvin, “ and I think, sir, you had 
better consider' what you do. I may tell you 
now, what I did not mention before, that the bear- 
ing on my cap very soon betrayed that I belong- 
ed to the Duke of Orleans, and I heard bets made 
among the Burgundy people that we should not 
go five miles before we were brought back. 
There was a great deal of talk about it that I 
don’t remember, as to whether his highness 
would keep you or let you go at all; but all 
agreed that if he did let you go, you would not 
go far without being stopped and searched. I 
took no notice, and pretended not to hear ; but I 
slipped out quietly and saddled the horses.” 

“You did well, Chauvin,” replied the young 
secretary. “ But I must not delay when there 
is a possibility of going forward. This gentle- 
man agrees to show us a less dangerous way than 
the high-road, and I am determined to put my- 
self under his guidance. The responsibility be 
upon my head.” 

“ Well, sir, I have nothing to do but obey,” 
replied the chevaucheur, and took a step toward 
the door. 

“Stay a moment,” said the astrologer. “I 
have ordered you some refreshment, and I have 


two words to write to the noble duke. Monsieur 
De Brecy. Tell him I am his faithful servant 
ever, and that I greatly regret to have to warn 
him of such impending danger.” 

“ I beseech you, my good friend,” replied Jean 
Charost, “ send your warning by some other 
messenger; first, because I may be long upon 
the way, and tidings of such importance should 
reach his highness soon; secondly, because I 
would fain not be a bird of evil omen. Great 
men love not those who bring them bad tidings. 
But the first reason is the best. I will take your 
letter, however unwillingly, but eight-and-forty 
hours must elapse ere I can reach Blois. I shall 
then have to wait the pleasure of the duchess, 
and then return, probably, by slow journeys; 
valuable time will be lost, and your intelligence 
may come too late.” 

“ So be it,” said the astrologer; “although — ” 

But before he could finish the sentence, a tawny 
colored man, dressed somewhat fantastically, in 
a white tunic and large turban, entered the room 
bearing in bottles and silver cups. “ You have 
seldom tasted such wine as this,” said the astrolo- 
ger, offering the first cup he poured out to the 
tall gaunt stranger. “ Take it, my lord. You 
are my early friend and patron; and you must 
not depart -without drinking wine in my house. 
It will do you good, and raise your spirits.” 

“ I would not have them raised,” replied the 
stranger, putting aside the cup. “ False happi- 
ness is not what I desire. I have had too much 
of that already. My misery is pure, if it be bit- 
ter. I would not mingle it with a fouler thing. 

Those were the only words he spoke from that 
moment till the whole party reached the neigh- 
borhood of Chilleurs aux Rois. 

Martin Grille drank his cup of wine, and hast- 
ened to bring out the horses. Armand Chauvin 
drank likewise, and followed him in silence, and 
when the astrologer accompanied his two noble 
guests to the court-yard, they found a tall, power- 
ful gray horse held ready by the Moor. Jean 
Charost took leave of his host with a few courteous 
words ; but the stranger mounted in silence, rode 
out as soon as the gates were open, and turning at 
once to the right, led the way quite round the 
town, crossed a small stream, and then, by paths 
with which he seemed perfectly well acquainted, 
dashed on at a quick pace to the westward, leav- 
ing the others to come after as best they could, 
much to the inconvenience, be it said, of poor 
Martin G^lle, whose horse stumbled continually, 
as horses will do with bad riders. 

Jean Charost kept generally by the stranger’s 
side, and once or twice spoke a few words to 
him; but he received no answer, and through 
the long night they rode on, even after the moon 
had gone down, without drawing a rein till, just 
at the gray of the morning, they distinguished a 
church steeple, at the distance of about half a 
mile on the right. There the stranger pulled 
up his horse suddenly, and said, “ Chilleurs aux 
Rois.” 

“Here, I suppose, we are safe,” said Jean 
Charost. 

“ Quite safe,” was the brief reply. “ Fare you 
well — remember!” 

“ I always remember my given word,” replied 
Jean Charost; “where can I see or hear from 
you in case of need ?” 

The stranger gazed at him with a grim dark 
smile; turned his horse’s head and galloped 
away. 


AGNES SOREL. 


53 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The curiosity of Martin Grille was greatly ex- 
cited. The curiosity of Martin Grille could not 
rest- He had* no idea of a master having a se- 
cret from a valet. What were valets made for? 
he asked himself. What could they do in the 
world if there was any such thing as a secret 
from them ? He determined he would find out 
that of his master, and he used every effort, trust- 
ing to Jean Charost’s inexperience to lead him 
into any admission — into any slip of the tongue 
— which would give one simple fact regarding 
the stranger whom they had met at Pithiviers, 
relying on his own ingenuity to combine it with 
what he had already observed, so as to make 
some progress on the way to knowledge. But 
Jean Charost foiled all his efforts, and afforded 
him not the slightest hint of any kind, greatly 
raising his intellect in the opinion of his worthy 
valet, but irritating Martin’s curiosity still fur- 
ther. 

If there be not some important secret,” 
thought the man, why should he be so anxious 
to conceal it?” and he set to work to bring Ar- 
mand Chauvin into a league and confederacy for 
the purpose of discovering the hidden treasure. 

Armand, however, not only rejected all his 
overtures, but reproved him for his curiosity. “ I 
know not what is the business of valets. Master 
Martin,” he said ; but I know my own busi- 
ness. The cTievaucheur should be himself as secret 
as the grave. Should know nothing, see noth- 
ing, hear nothing, except what he is told in the 
way of his business. If a secret message is giv- 
en him to convey, he should forget it altogether 
till he sees the person to whom it is to be deliv- 
ered, and then forget it again as soon as it is given. 
Take my advice, Master Martin, and do not med- 
dle with your master’s secrets. Many a man finds 
his own too heavy to bear, and many a man has 
been hanged for having those of other people.” 

Martin Grille did not at all like the idea of be- 
ing hanged, and the warning quieted him from 
Orleans, where it was given, to the good town 
of Blois ; but still he resolved to watch narrowly 
in after days, and to see whether, by putting 
piece and piece together, he could not pluck out 
the heart of Jean Charost’s mystery. 

The three horsemen rode into the town of 
Blois at eventide, just as the sun was setting; 
and, according to the directions he had received, 
Jean Charost proceeded straight to the ancient 
chateau, which, when somewhat altered from its 
then existing form, was destined to be the scene 
of many tragic events in French history. 

Though the face of the world has remained 
the same, though mountain and valley stand 
where valley and mountain stood, though towns 
and fortresses are still to be found where towns 
and fortresses then existed, the changes of socie- 
ty have been so great, the relations between man 
and man, and between man and all external 
thinf^s, have been so much altered, that it is with 
difficulty we bring our mind to comprehend how 
certain things, all positive facts, existed in other 
days, and to perceive the various relations— to us 
all strange and anomalous — which thus arose. It 
is probable that the Duke of Orleans did not pos- 
sess a foot of land in the town of Blois besides 
the old chateau, and that he did not hold that in 
pure possession. But, either as appanage or fief, 
he held great territories in the central and south- 
western parts of France, which yielded him con- 


siderable revenue in the shape of dues, tolls, and 
taxes, gave him the command of many import- 
ant towns, and placed in his hands, during life, 
a number of magnificent residences, kept up al- 
most entirely by services of vassals or other feudal 
inferiors. Shortly before this time, the Duchy 
of Aquitaine had been thus conceded to him, and 
Orleans, Blois, and a number of small cities had 
been long in his possession. Thus the chateau 
of Blois was at this time held by him, if not in 
pure property, yet in full possession, and afford- 
ed a quiet retreat, if not exactly a happy resi- 
dence, to a wife whom he sincerely loved, with- 
out passion, and esteemed, even while he neg- 
lected. 

Removed from the scenes of contention which 
were daily taking place near the capital — con- 
tention often dignified by the name of war, but 
more deserving that of anarchy — the town of 
Blois had enjoyed for many years a peaceful and 
even sluggish calm, for the disorders of many 
other parts of France, of course, put a stop to 
peaceful enterprise in any direction, either men 
tal or physical. There seemed no energy in. the 
place ; and the little court there held by the 
Duchess of Orleans, as well as the number of 
persons who usually resided in the town as a 
place of security, afforded the only inducements 
to active industry. 

As Jean Charost rode along through the streets, 
there were shops which might be considered 
gay, as the world then went; there were per- 
sons of good means and bright clothing, and a 
number of the inferior class taking an hour’s ex- 
ercise before the close of day. But there was 
none of the eager bustle of a busy, thrifty city, 
and the amusement -loving people nf France 
seemed solely occupied with amusement in the 
town of Blois. 

At the gates of the old castle, the draw-bridge 
was found down, the portcullis raised, two lazy 
guards were pitching pieces of stone into a hole 
dug in the middle of the way, and wrangling 
with each other about their game. Both started 
up, however, as the three horsemen came slowly 
over the bridge, and one thrust himself in the way 
with an air of military fierceness as he saw the 
face of a stranger in the leader of the party. The 
next moment, however, he exclaimed, Ah ! 
pardie : Chauvin is that you ? Who is this young 
gentleman?” 

“ I am secretary to his highness the Duke of 
Orleans,” replied Jean Charost; ‘'and I bear a 
letter to the duchess to deliver into her own 
hands.” 

Admission was not difficult to obtain ; and 
Jean Charost was passed from hand to hand till 
he found himself in the interior of that gloomy 
building, which always seems to the visitor of 
modern times redolent of bloody and mysterious 
deeds. 

A gi’ave and respectable-looking man at length 
showed Jean Charost into a handsomely- furnished 
room in one of the towers which looked out in 
the direction of Tours ; and, seating himself upon 
a large window-seat, forming a coffer for fire- 
wood, he gazed out upon the scene below and 
saw the sun set over the world of trees beneath 
him. Darkness came on rapidly, but still he 
was suffered to remain alone, and silence brood- 
ed over the whole place, unbroken even by a 
passing footfall. All was so still that he could 
have fancied that some one was dead in the place, 
and the rest were silent mourners. 


54 


AGNES SOREL. 


At length a slow, quiet footfall in the distance 
met his ear, coming along with easy, almost 
drowsy pace, till the same old man appeared, 
and conducted him through a length of passages 
and vacant rooms to the presence of the Duchess 
of Orleans. 

She was seated in a large arm-chair, with a 
table by her side, and was dressed almost alto- 
gether in black ; but to the eyes of Jean Gharost 
she seemed exceedingly beautiful, with finely- 
shaped features, bright eyes, and an expression 
of melancholy which suited well the peculiar 
oast of her countenance. She gazed earnestly at 
Jean Gharost as he advanced toward her, and 
said, as soon as she thought him near enough, 
“ You come from his highness, I am told. How 
is my dear husband?” 

“ Not so well as I could wish, madam,” replied 
Jean Gharost; ‘‘but this letter which I have the 
honor to present will tell you moi-e.” 

The duchess held out her fair hand for the 
epistle, but it trembled greatly as she took it ; 
and the young secretary would not venture to 
look in her face as she "was reading, for he knew 
that she would be greatly agitated. She was so, 
indeed ; but she recovered herself speedily, and, 
speaking still with a slight foreign accent, de- 
manded further details. 

“ He says only that he is ill,” she exclaimed. 
“ Tell me, sir — tell me how he really is. Did 
you see him ? Yes, you must have seen him, for 
he says you are his secretary. Has he concealed 
any thing in this letter? Is it necessary that I 
should set out this night ? I am quite ready. He 
must be very ill,” she added, in a low and mel- 
ancholy tone, “ or he would not have sent for me.” 

“ His highness is ill, madam,” replied Jean 
Gharost, “seriously ill, I fear; but I trust not 
dangerously so. The contentions in which he 
has lately been engaged with the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, but which are now happily over — ” 

“ Oh, that house of Burgundy ! that house of 
Burgundy !” said the duchess, in a low, sad tone. 

“ These, and many other anxieties,” continued 
Jean Gharost, “ together with much fatigup, have 
produced, what I should suppose, some sort of 
fever, and a great depression of mind — a melan- 
choly — which probably makes his highness im- 
agine his illness even greater than it is. I should 
think, however, madam, that by setting out this 
night you would not greatly accelerate your 
journey. The roads are difficult and somewhat 
dangerous — ” 

“ Nevertheless, I will go,” replied the duch- 
ess ; and putting her hand before her eyes, she 
seemed to fall into thought for a few moments. 
Jean Gharost saw some tear-drops trickle through 
her fingers, and the young man, inexperienced 
as he was, felt how many emotions might mingle 
with those tears. He withdrew his eyes, and 
fixed them on the ground, and at length the 
duchess said, “ Will you call my attendants, sir, 
from the ante-room ? I must make preparation.” 

She pointed, as she spoke, to a different door 
to that by which the young gentleman had been 
introduced, and Jean Gharost walked toward it, 
bowing to the princess, as if taking leave. She 
stopped him, however, to bid him return in a few 
minutes, saying, with a sad smile, “ My thoughts 
are too busy. Monsieur De Brecy, to attend to 
courtesy ; but I beseech you, take care of your- 
self as if you were an inmate of the house. My 
husband seems to have much confidence in you, 
and desires that you should accompany me. If 


you are too much fatigued to do so to-night, you 
can follow me to-morrow, and will doubtless 
overtake me in time.” 

“ Not too much fatigued myself, madam,” re- 
plied Jean Gharost; “ but I fear nly horses could 
not go far. If there be time, I will provide oth- 
ers.” 

“ Oh, that will be easily managed,” she an- 
swered. “ There are always horses enough here. 
I will see that you are mounted.” 

The young gentleman then proceeded to the 
ante-room, where he found a bevy of young girls, 
each seated demurely at her embroidery frame, 
under the eye of an elder lady. Gay glances 
were shot at him from every side, but he con- 
tented himself with simply announcing the duch- 
ess’s commands, and then proceeded in search 
of his companions of the road. He found that 
Armand Ghauvin was completely at home in the 
chateau of Blois, and had made Martin Grille 
quite familiar with the place already ; nor did 
the young gentleman himself feel any of that shy 
timidity which he had experienced when, as a 
stranger, unknown to all around him, he had first 
taken up his abode in the Hotel d’Orleans. There 
was a subdued and quiet tone, too, about the 
court of the duchess, very different from the gay 
and somewhat insolent demeanor of her hus- 
band’s younger attendants; and the young sec- 
retary, now known as such, was treated with all 
courtesy, and obtained every thing he could de- 
sire for the refreshment of himself and his horses. 
Gradually, however, the bustle of preparation 
spread from the apartments of the duchess 
through the rest of the house, accompanied by 
the report of her being about to set out that very 
night to join her husband at Beaute. All were 
eager to know the cause and the particulars, and 
an old major-domo ventured to come into the 
hall where Jean Gharost was seated with some 
wine and meat before him, to extract every in- 
formation that he could upon the subject. He 
received very cautious answers, however, and 
ere he had carried his questions far, he was in- 
terrupted by the entrance of the ckevaucheur, in 
some haste and appai’ent alarm. 

“ They tell me. Monsieur De Brecy,” he said 
in his abrupt manner, “ that the duchess sets 
forth to-night.” 

Jean Gharost nodded his head. 

“ Have you told her,” asked Ghauvin, “ that 
the Duke of Burgundy is on the road between 
this and the Seine?” 

“ No,” answered Jean Gharost, starting up, his 
mind seizing at once the vague idea of danger. 
“ Surely he would not — ” 

“ Humph !” said Armand Ghauvin. “ There is 
no knowing what he would not.” 

“ Indeed, there is not,” said the old major- 
domo ; “ and methinks the duchess should send 
out a party of piqueurs to bring him in, or clear 
the way of him.” 

“ I had better tell her,” said Jean Gharost, 
thoughtfully. “ If there be danger, she will 
judge of it better than I can.” 

“ I will show you the way, sir — I will show 
you the way,” said the old major-domo, with of- 
ficious civility. “ This way, if you please — this 
way.” 

When again admitted to the presence of the 
duchess, the young secretary informed her that 
he had met with the Duke of Burgundy at Pith- 
iviei’s, but excused his not having mentioned the 
fact before on the ground of not apprehending 


AGNES SOREL. 


55 


any danger in consequence of the recent recon- 
ciliation of the houses of Burgundy and Orleans. 
It soon became evident to him, however, that all 
the friends and attendants of the Duke of Or- 
leans, although he himself had seemed perfectly 
confident of his cousin’s good faith, looked upon 
the^ late reconciliation as but a hollow deceit, 
which would be set at naught by the Duke of 
Bui'gundy as soon as it ^uited his convenience. 
The duchess evidently shared in this general feel- 
ing; but still she determined to pursue her first in- 
tention, and merely took the precaution of order- 
ing her escort to be doubled. 

“ I believe,” she said, “ that there is not a man 
goes with me who will not shed the last drop of 
his blood in my defense; and you, too. Monsieur 
De Brecy, will do the same out of love for my 
dear husband.” 

“ Right willingly, madam,” replied Jean Cha- 
rost; “but I trust you may escape all peril.” 

The duchess soon dismissed him again, telling 
him that there would be ample time for him to 
take some repose ; that their preparations would 
not be complete till nearly midnight; but Jean 
Charost contented himself with a short sleep in 
a large arm-chair in the hall, and then started up 
from the blessed, dreamless slumber of youth, re- 
freshed and ready for new exertion. About an 
hour after, the midnight march began. The lit- 
ter of the princess, containing herself and her 
oungest son, was drawn by four white mules ; 
ut in advance were eight or ten men-at-arms, 
cased in plate armor, and lance in hand. A large 
body followed the litter; and on either side of 
it rode several of the noble retainers of the house 
of Orleans more lightly armed, among whom was 
Jean Charost. The moon shone out brightly; 
and as her pale rays fell upon the duchess’s lit- 
ter with its white curtains, and upon another, 
containing some of her female attendants, which 
followed, and glistened upon the steel casques 
and corselets of the men-at-arms as they wound 
in and out along the banks of the river, the whole 
formed a scene strangely exciting to the imag- 
ination of Jean Charost, who had seen little, for 
many years, of any thing like military display. 
The march passed quietly enough, and for the 
first three or four days no incident of any kind 
occurred which is worthy of detail. On many 
occasions the young secretary had the opportu- 
nity of conversing with the duchess ; and her 
quiet gentleness, the strong, unshaken, uncom- 
plaining affection which she showed toward her 
husband with all his faults, together with native 
graces unhardened, and personal beauty hardly 
touched by time, made Jean Charost marvel 
greatly at the wayward heart of man, and ask 
himself, with doubt and almost fear, if ever he 
himself could be brought to sport with or neg- 
lect the affections of a being such as that. 

In the neighborhood of Pithiviers, it was as- 
certained that the Duke of Burgundy had retired 
from that part of the country two days before, 
turning his steps toward Paris ; and the Duchess 
of Orleans, freed from all apprehensions, sent 
back the military part of her escort to Blois, re- 
marking, with a smile, to Jean Charost, “ I must 
not, except in case of need, go to my husband 
with such a body of armed men, as if I came to 
take his castle by storm.” 

“ I can assure you, madam,” replied the young 
secretary, laying some emphasis on the words, 
“ you will find that it is surrendered to you at 
discretion.” 


At the next halting-place the litter stopped, 
about an hour before sunset. There were few at- 
tendants around; the old major domo was some- 
what slow in dismounting, and Jean Charost, 
who was sooner on foot, drew back the curtains 
to permit the duchess to alight. She had hard- 
ly set her foot to the ground, however, when a 
hard, powerful hand was laid upon the young 
secretary’s shoulder, and a hollow voice said, 
aloud, “ Young man, God will bless you. I find 
you are faithful and true amid the false and the 
deceitful.” 

Both the duchess and Jean Charost turned 
suddenly to look at the speaker. The latter rec- 
ognized him at once as the stranger whom he 
had seen at Pithiviers, and on one occasion be- 
fore ; but the duchess drew a little back, mur- 
muring, with a look of alarm, “ Who is that per- 
son?” 

“ Strange to say, madam,” replied the young 
secretary, “ I can not tell your highness. I have 
seen him once or twice in somewhat singular cir- 
cumstances ; but his name I do not know.” 

As soon as the stranger had uttered the words 
above mentioned, he had crossed his arms upon 
his breast and moved away, hardly noticed by 
the attendants in the bustle of arrival; but the 
duchess followed him still with her eyes ; and 
then, as she walked on, she repeated twice the 
stranger’s words, “You are faithful and true amid 
the false and the deceitful;” and then, looking 
earnestly in Jean Charost’s face, she added, “ Will 
you be faithful and true to me also, young gentle- 
man ?” 

“ I am sure he will, mother,” said her young 
son, who was holding her hand; and Jean Cha- 
rost replied, “ To all who trust me, I will be so, 
madam. When I am not, I pray God that I may 
die.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

When within a few miles of the chateau of 
Beaut6, Armand Chauvin was sent forward to an- 
nounce the near approach of the duchess ; and she 
herself, though the weather was still intensely 
cold, notwithstanding the brightness of the sun- 
shine, ordered the curtains of the litter to be 
looped up, in order that she might see the castle 
before she actually reached it. Her anxiety evi- 
dently increased as they came nearer and nearer 
the dwelling of her husband. And who is there, 
after being long absent from those they love, who 
does not, on approaching the place of their abode, 
feel a strange, thrilling anxiety in regard to all 
that time may have done ? It is at that moment 
that the uncertainty of human fate, the hourly 
peril of eveiy happiness, the dark possibilities of 
every moment of existence seem to rush upon 
the mind at once. I have often thought that, if 
man could but know the giddy pinnacle upon 
which his fortunes ever Stand, the precipices that 
suiTound him on every side; the perils above, 
below, around, life would be intolerable. But 
he is placed in the midst of friendly mists, that 
conceal the abysses from his eye, and is led on 
by a hand — in those mists equally unseen — which 
guides his steps aright, and brings him home at 
length. It is only the intense anxiety of affection 
for those we love that ever wafts the vapor* 
away, even for a moment, and gives us a brief 
sight of the dangers that surround our mortal be- 


56 


AGNES SOREL. 


ing, while the hand of the Almighty Guide re- 
mains concealed, and but too often untrusted. 

While still at some miles’ distance from the 
castle, the towers and pinnacles were seen peep- 
ing over the shoulder of a wooded hill, and then 
they were lost again, and seen, and lost once 
more. The duchess then beckoned up Jean Cha- 
post to the side of her litter, conversed with him 
some time, and asked him many questions ; how 
long he had been with the duke, who commend- 
ed him to her husband’s service, what was his 
family and his native place. She asked, too, 
more particularly regarding her husband’s health, 
whether his illness had been sudden, or an- 
nounced by any previous symptoms of declining 
health ; but she asked not one question regard- 
ing his conduct, his habits, or any of his acts. 
She did not need to ask, indeed ; but, even if she 
had not known too well, still she would have 
abstained. 

At length the hill was climbed, the wood was 
passed, the gate of the chateau of Beaute was in 
view, with attendants already marshaled on each 
side of the draw-bridge, to honor the duchess’s 
reception. As soon as the head of her little es- 
cort appeared upon the road, a page ran into the 
ward-room of the great tower, and the next in- 
stant another figure came forth with that of the 
boy, and advanced along the bridge. Greatly to 
Jean Charost’s joy and satisfaction, he recognized 
the figure of the duke, and when he looked to- 
ward the duchess, he saw a bright and grateful 
drop sparkling in her eyes, which, in spite of a 
struggle to repress it, rolled over and moistened 
her cheek. Another moment, and the duke stood 
beside the litter ; the mules stopped, and, bend- 
ing forward, he cast his arms around his wife. 
She leaned her head upon his shoulder, and there 
must have shed tears ; but they were soon ban- 
ished, and all parties bore a look of joy. Jean 
Charost could not help remarking, however, that 
the duke was very pale, and looked older by 
some years than when he had last seen him. 
But still, there was one thing very satisfactory in 
his aspect to the eyes of the young man. There 
was a gladness, a lightness of expression, an af- 
fectionate earnestness in his greeting of the duch- 
ess which, from all he had heard and knew, he 
had not expected. There was great satisfaction, 
too, on the faces of all the elder attendants. Lo- 
melini looked quite radiant, and even Monsieur 
Blaize forgot his ancient formality, and suffered 
his face to overrun with well-pleased smiles. 
He laid a friendly grasp, too, upon Jean Charost’s 
arm, as the duke and duchess passed into the 
chateau, and walked on with him across the 
court, saying, in a low voice, “ You have done a 
good ser\nce, my young friend, in bringing that 
lady back to this house, which might well atone 
for a great number of faults. She has not been 
here for four years.” 

“ I hope I have not accumulated many faults 
to atone for, good sir,” answered Jean Charost, 
smiling. “ If I have, I am unconscious of them.” 

“ Oh, of course, that is between you and your 
own conscience,” answered Monsieur Blaize, in 
an off-hand kind of way. “ It is no business of 
mine.” 

I am glad to hear, at least, that it is not 
you I have offended,” answered Jean Charost. 
“ You were my first friend in the household. 
Monsieur Blaize, and I should be very sorry to 
give you any cause for reproach.” 

Oh, no — no !” answered the old €cuyer. “ You 


have done nothing against me at all. But as to 
the duchess — how has she passed the journey ? 
Did she meet with any difficulty or misadventure 
by the way ?” 

“ None whatever,” answered the young secre- 
tary. “ None were apprehended, I presume.” 
And then, judging Monsieur Blaize more clear- 
sightedly than might have been expected in so 
young a man, he added, Had there been any 
danger, of course the du*ke would have sent your- 
self or some gentleman of military experience.” 

Monsieur Blaize was evidently well satisfied 
with the reply; but still he rejoined, '‘Perhaps 
I could not well be spared from this place dur- 
ing his highness’s illness. We were in great 
consternation here, I can tell you, my young 
friend.” 

“ Has he been very ill, then ?” asked the secre 
tary. 

“ For two days after you were gone,” replied 
Monsieur Blaize, “ no one thought to see him rise 
from his bed again; and he himself evidently 
thought his last hours were coming. He sent for 
notaries, made his will, and was driven at length 
to get a leech from Paris — a very skillful man in- 
deed. He consulted the moon, and the aspect 
of the stars ; chose the auspicious moment, gave 
him benzoin and honey, besides a fever drink, 
and some drops, of which he would not tell the 
secret, but which we all believed to be potable 
gold. It is wonderful, the effect they had. He 
announced boldly that, at the change of the moon, 
on the third day, the duke would be better ; and 
so it proved. His highness watched anxiously 
for the minute, and immediately the clock struck 
he declared that he felt relieved, to our very great 
joy. Since that time, he has continued to im- 
prove; but he can not be called well yet. And 
now, if you will take my advice, you will go and 
order yourself something to eat at the buttery, 
and then lie down and rest ; for you look as hag- 
gard and worn as an old courtier. It was too 
heavy a task to put upon a boy like you.” 

Jean Charost, during the whole of this conver- 
sation, had been carrying on in his own mind, as 
we so continually do, a separate train or under- 
current of thought, as to what could be the faults 
which good Monsieur Blaize seemed to impute 
to him ; and he came to conclusions very natu- 
rally which proved not far from the truth. There 
was but one point in his whole histoiy in regard 
to which there was any thing like mystery, and 
he judged rightly that, if men were inclined to 
attribute to him any evil act, they must fix upon 
that point as a basis. He was determined to 
learn more, if possible, however; and, in reply 
to Monsieur Blaize’s advice to get food and rest, 
he said, laughingly, “Oh no. Monsieur Blaize, 
before I either eat or sleep, I must go down to 
the hamlet, to see my baby.” 

“Well, you speak of it coolly enough,” replied 
Monsieur Blaize. 

“ Why should I not?” answered Jean Charost, 
quickly. But the old gentleman suddenly turned 
away and left him ; and Jean Charost was at 
once convinced that some calumny had been 
circulated among the household in regard to the 
child which had been so strangely thrown upon 
his hands. By early misfortunes and difficulties 
he had been taught to decide rapidly and ener- 
getically, and his mind was soon made up on the 
present occasion, to seek the first opportunity of 
telling his own story to the Duke of Orleans, and 
explaining every thing, as far as it was in his 


AGNES SOREL. 


57 


power to explain. In the mean while, however, 
as soon as he had given some directions to Martin 
Grille, he strolled down to the hamlet and sought 
out the house of Madame Moulinet. He knocked 
first with his hand, and there being no answer, 
though he thought he heard the voices of persons 
within, he opened the door and entered at once 
into the kitchen. Madame Moulinet was seated 
there, with the child upon her knee ; but the door 
on the opposite side of the room was closing just 
as Jean Charost went in, and he caught a glance 
of a black velvet mantle, before it was actually 
shut. 

“How thrives the child, Madame Moulinet?” 
asked Jean Charost, looking down upon the in- 
fant with a glance of interest, but with none of 
that peculiar admiration which grown women 
feel and grown men often affect for a very young 
baby. 

The good woman assured him that the child 
was doing marvelously, and Jean Charost then 
proceeded to inquire whether any one, during 
his absence, had been to visit or inquire after it. 

“ Oh, a quantity of people from the castle, sir,” 
answered the good dame ; “ that saucy young 
fellow De Royans among the rest, and old Mon- 
sieur Blaize, and the chaplain, and the fool, God 
wot ! But beside that — ” and she dropped her 
voice to a lower tone — “ one evening, just as we 
were going to bed, there came a strange, wild- 
looking gentleman, with long gray hair, ■wjio 
seemed so mad he frightened both me and my 
husband. He asked a number of questions. 
Then he stared at the child for full five minutes, 
and cried out at length, ‘ Ah ! she doubtless look- 
ed once like that,’ and then he threw down a 
purse upon the table with fifty gold crowns in 
it. So the little maid has got her little fortune 
already.” 

“ Did you not know him?” asked Jean Charost. 

“ I never saw him in my life before,” replied 
the woman ; “ and, in truth, I did not know how 
to answer any one when they asked me about 
the child, as you were gone, and had not told me 
what to say ; so all I could tell them was that 
you had brought her here, had paid well for 
nursing her, and had commanded me to take 
good care of her in the name of my good father’s 
old lord.” 

“And was that wild-looking man not your 
father’s old lord ?” asked Jean Charost, in a tone 
of much surprise. 

“ Lord bless your heart, no sir,” replied Mad- 
ame Moulinet. “ A hand’s breadth taller, and 
not half so stout — quite a different sort of man al- 
together.” 

Jean Charost mused in silence ; but he asked 
no further questions, and shortly after returned 
to the chateau. 

In passing through the court-yard, the first per- 
son the young gentleman encountered was Seign- 
eur Andre the fool, who at once began upon 
the subject of the child with a good deal of ma- 
levolence. “ Ah, ha ! Mr. Secretary,” he said, “ I 
want to roam the forests with you, and find out 
the baby-tree that bears living acorns. On my 
faith, the duke ought to knight you with his own 
hand, being the guide of ladies, and the protector 
of orphans, the defender of women and children.” 

“My good friend,” replied Jean Charost, “I 
think he ought to promote you also. I have 
heard of a good many gentlemen of your pro- 
fession; but all the rest are mere pretenders to 
you. The others only call themselves fools ; you 


are one in reality and with these tart words, 
excited as much, perhaps, by some new feeling 
of doubt and perplexity in his own mind, as by 
the jester’s evident ill will toward him, he walk- 
ed on and sought his own chamber. 

The rest of the day passed without any inci- 
dent worthy of notice, except some little annoy- 
ance which the young secretary had to endure 
from a very general feeling of ill will toward him 
among those who had been longer in the service 
of the Duke of Orleans than himself. He was 
unconscious, indeed, of deserving it, but one of 
the sad lessons of the world was being learned : 
that success and favor create bitter enemies ; and 
he had already made some progress in the study. 
He took no notice, therefore, of hints, jests, and 
insinuations, but sought his own room as soon as 
supper was over, and remained reading for near- 
ly an hour. At the end of that time, one of the 
duke’s menial attendants entered, saying briefly, 
“ Monsieur De Brecy, his highness has asked to 
see you in his toilet chamber.” 

Jean Charost followed immediately, and found 
the duke seated in his furred dressing-gown, as 
if prepared to retire to rest. His face was grave, 
and there was a certain degree of sternness about 
it which Jean Charost had never remarked there 
before. He spoke kindly, however, and bade 
the young gentleman be seated. 

“ I hear from the duchess, my fiiend,” he said, 
“that you have well and earnestly executed the 
task I gave you to perform, and I thank you. I 
wish, however, to hear some more particular ac- 
count of your journey from your own lips. You 
arrived, it seems, at Blois sooner than I imagined 
you could have accomplished the journey. You 
must have ridden hard.” 

“ I lost no time, your highness,” answered 
Jean Charost; “but an event happened on the 
road which made me ride one whole night with- 
out stopping, although the horses were very 
tired. It is absolutely necessary, when you have 
leisure, that I should relate to your highness all 
the particulars of that night’s adventure, as they 
may be of importance, the extent of which I can 
not judge.” 

The duke smiled with a well-pleased look. 
“ Tell me all about it now,” he said. “ I shall 
not go to bed for an hour ; so we shall have time 
enough.” 

Succinctly, but as clearly and minutely as pos- 
sible, Jean Charost then related to the prince all 
that had occurred between himself and the Duke 
of Burgundy, and took especial care to mention 
his visit to the house of the astrologer, and his 
having been guided by a stranger on the way to 
Blois. The duke listened with a countenance 
varying a good deal, sometimes assuming an ex- 
pression of deep grave thought, and at others of 
gay, almost sarcastic merriment. At length he 
laajghed outright. 

“ See what handles,” he said, “ men will make 
of very little things ! But truth and honesty will 
put down all. I am glad you have frankly told 
me all this, De Brecy.” 

Then he paused again for a moment or two, and 
added, abruptly, “ My good cousin of Burgundy 
— he was always the most curious and inquisitive 
of men. I do believe this was all curiosity, my 
friend. I do not think he meant you any evil, 
or me either. He wanted to know all ; for he . 
is a very suspicious man.” 

“ I think, sir, he is one of the most disagree- 
able men I ever saw,” replied Jean Charost. 


58 


AGNES SOREL. 


Even his condescension has something scorn- 
ful in it.” 

“ And yet, De Brecy,” replied the duke, “ out 
of this very simple affair oi your meeting with 
John of Burgundy, there be people who would 
have fain manufactured a charge against you.” 

Jean Charost gazed in the duke’s face with some 
surprise, never having dreamed that the intelli- 
gence of what had occurred on the road could 
have reached him so soon. I am surprised that 
Armaud should attribute any evil to me, sir,” he 
said ; for he must have seen how eager I was 
to escape.” 

“ Acquit poor Armand,” said the duke. “ He 
had naught to do with the affair ; but you have 
enemies in this house, De Brecy, who will find 
that their master understands courts and court- 
iers, and will never shake my good opinion of 
you, so long as you are honest and frank with 
me. They set on that malicious fool, Andre, to 
pick out some mischief from Armand Chauvin. 
He got him to relate all that had happened, and 
then, when I sent for the fool to divert me for 
half an hour, he told me, with his wise air, that 
you had had a secret interview with the Duke 
of Burgundy, winch lasted several hours. It is 
strange how near half a truth sometimes comes 
to a whole lie ! They have not been wanting in 
their friendship for you during your absence. 
Nevertheless, I doubt not you could explain all 
their tales as easily as you have done this — even 
if you have committed some slight indiscretion, 
I have no right to tax you. Well, well — good- 
night. Some day I will say something more, as 
your friend — as one who has more experience — 
as one who has suffered, if he has sinned.” 

“I thank your highness,” replied Jean Charost, 
“and will not presume to intrude upon you fur- 
ther to-night ; but there is one matter of much 
importance to myself — of none to your highness 
— which I would fain communicate to you for 
counsel and direction in my inexperience, when 
you can give me a few minutes’ audience.” 

“Ha!” said the duke; but as he spoke the 
clock of the castle struck eleven, and saying, 
“To-moiTow morning — to-morrow morning I 
will send for you,” he suffered the young secre- 
tary to retire. 


CHAPTER XXL 

In the court-yard of the chateau of Beaute — a 
long, but somewhat narrow parallelogram — were 
assembled most of the male members of the 
Duke of Orleans’s household, two days after the 
return of Jean Charost from Blois. Some were 
on horseback, and some on foot ; and nine or ten 
of the younger men were armed with a long ash 
staff, shaped somewhat like a lance, while the 
rest of the party were in their ordinary riding- 
dresses, with no arms but the customary sword 
and dagger. All these were gathered together 
at one end of the court, while a trumpeter, hold- 
ing his trumpet with its bell-shaped mouth lean- 
ing on his hip, was placed a little in advance. 

At the other end of the court stood a column 
of wood, perhaps six feet in height, surmounted 
by a grotesque-looking carved image, represent- 
ing the upper part of a man, with both arms ex- 
tended, and a long, heavy cudgel in each hand. 
After a moment’s pause, and a consultation among 
the elder heads, one of the inferior servants was 


sent forward for purposes that will speedily be 
shown, to act as, what was called, master of the 
Quintain ; but he took care to place himself be- 
yond the sweep of the cudgel in the hand of the 
image so called. 

The sport about to begin was of very ancient 
date, and had been generally superseded by 
somewhat more graceful exercises ; but the Duke 
of Orleans was very fond of old customs, and had 
revived many chivalrous sports which had fallen 
out of use. At a signal ffom Monsieur Blaize, 
who was on foot, the trumpeter put his instru- 
ment of noise to his lips, and blew a blast which, 
well understood, ranged the young cavaliers in- 
stantly in line, and then, after a moment’s pause, 
sounded a charge. One of the party instantly 
sprung forward, lance in rest, toward the Quin- 
tain, aiming directly at the centre of the head of 
the figure. He was quite a young lad, and his 
arm not very steady, so that he somewhat missed 
his mark, and struck the figure on the cheek. 
Moving on a pivot, the Quintain whirled round 
under the blow, with the arms still extended, 
and, as the horse carried the youth on, he must 
have received a tremendous stroke from the 
wooden cudgel on his back, had he not bent 
down to his horse’s neck, so that the blow pass- 
ed over him. Some laughed; but Juvenel de 
Royans, who was the next but one to follow, ex- 
claimed aloud, “ That’s not fair.” 

“ Quite fair, I think,” replied Jean Charost, 
who was near. 

“ What do you know about it ?” cried the oth- 
er, impetuously. “Keep yourself to pens, and 
things you understand.” 

“ I may, perhaps, understand it better than 
you. Monsieur De Royans,” replied Jean Cha- 
rost, quite calmly. “ It is the favorite game at 
Bourges, and we consider that the next best point 
to hitting the Quintain straight, is to avoid the 
blow.” 

“ That’s the coward’s point, I suppose,” said 
Juvenel de Royans. 

“ Hush ! hush !” cried Monsieur Blaize. “ Si- 
lence, sir. Sound again, trumpet !” 

Another ran his course, struck the Quintain 
better, but did not dismount it ; and De Royans 
succeeded striking the figure right in the mid- 
dle of the forehead, and shaking the whole post, 
but still leaving the wooden image standing. 

The great feat of the game was, not only to 
aim the spear so fair as to avoid turning the fig- 
ure in the least, but so low that the least raising 
of the point at the same time threw it backward 
from its pivot. But this was a somewhat dan- 
gerous maneuvre ; for the chest of the image be- 
ing quite flat, and unmarked by any central point, 
the least deviation to the right or left swung 
round one of the cudgels with tremendous force, 
and the young gentleman did not venture to at- 
tempt it. 

Jean Charost, however, who, as a mere boy, 
had been trained to the exercise by his father, 
aimed right at the breast; but he paid for his 
temerity by a severe blow, which called forth a 
shout of laughter from De Royans and his com- 
panions. Others followed, who fared as badly, 
without daring as much. 

Each time the Quintain was moved, the serv- 
ant who had been sent forward readjusted it 
with the greatest care, and when each of the 
young men had run his course, the troop com- 
menced again. 

The rivalry between De Royans and De Brecy 


AGNES 

was by this time a well-understood thing in the 
chateau, and little heed was paid to the running 
of the rest till it came to the turn of the former. 
He then, with a sort of mock courtesy, besought 
Jean Charost to take his turn, saying, ‘‘You are 
the superior officer, sir, and, to say truth, I would 
fain learn that dextrous trick of yours, if you 
venture upon it again.” 

“ I certainly shall,” replied Jean Charost, “ and 
I shall be happy to teach you that, or better 
things. I will run first. The Quintain is not 
straight,” he continued, calling to the master of 
the Quintain. “ Advance the right arm an inch.” 

There was some little dispute as to whether 
the Quintain was straight or not, but in the end 
the trumpet again sounded. Jean Charost, with 
a better aim, hit the figure in the middle of the 
chest, and raising his arm lightly at the same in- 
stant, threw it back upon the ground. Then 
wheeling his horse, while the servant replaced 
it, he returned to his post. But no one said 
“ Well done,” except old Monsieur Blaize ; and 
Juvenel de Royans bit his lip, with a red spot on 
his cheek. 

Rash, confident, and angry, he took no pains 
to see that the figure was exactly straight, but 
dashed forward when the trumpet sounded, re- 
solved not to be outdone, aiming directly at the 
chest. Whether his horse swerved, or the figure 
was not well adjusted, I do not know ; but he hit 
it considerably to the right of the centre, and, as 
he was carried forward, the merciless cudgel 
struck him a blow on the back of the neck which 
hurled him out of the saddle to the ground. 

Jean Charost did not laugh; but he could not 
refrain from a smile, which caught De Royans’s 
eyes as he led his horse back again. The latter 
was dizzy and confused, however, and for a mo- 
ment, after he* had given his horse to a servant, 
he stood gnawing his lip, without uttering a 
word to any one. At length, as the others were 
running their course, however, he walked up to 
the side of Jean Charost, who was now a little 
apart from the rest, and some quick words and 
meaning glances were seen to pass between 
them. Their voices grew louder; De Royans 
touched the hilt of his sword ; and Jean Charost 
nodded his head, saying something in a low 
tone. 

“ For shame ! for shame !” said Monsieur 
Blaize, approaching ; but, ere he could add more, 
a casement just above their heads opened, and 
the voice of the Duke of Orleans was heard. 

“ Juvenel de Royans,” he said, “ have you any 
inclination for a dungeon? There are cells to 
fit you under the castle ; and, as I live, you shall 
enjoy one if you broil in my household. I know 
you, sir ; so be warned. De Brecy, come here ; 
I want you.” 

Jean Charost immediately dismounted, gave 
his horse to Martin Grille, and ascended to the 
gallery from which the Duke of Orleans had 
been watching the sports of the morning. It 
was a large room, communicating, by a door in 
the midst and a small vestibule, with that famous 
picture-gallery which has been already mention- 
ed. Voices were heard talking beyond; but 
the duke, after his young secretary’s arrival, con- 
tinued for a few minutes walking up and down 
the same chamber in which Jean Charost found 
him, leaning lightly on his arm. 

“ I know not how it is, my young friend,” he 
said, in a sort of musing tone, “ but the people 
here are clearly not very fond of you. How- 


SOREL. 59 

ever, I must insist that you take no notice what- 
ever of that peevish boy, De Royans.” 

“I am most willing, sir,” said Jean Charost, 
“ to live at peace with him and every one else, 
provided they will leave me at peace likewise. 
I have given neither him nor them any matter 
for offense, and yet I will acknowledge that since 
my first entrance into your highness’s household, 
I have met with little but enmity from any but 
good Monsieur Blaize and Signor Lomelini, who 
are both, I believe, my friends.” 

The duke mused very gravely, and then re- 
plied, “ I know not how it is. To me it seems 
that there is nothing in your demeanor and con- 
duct but that which should inspire kindness, and 
even respect. And yet,” he continued, after a 
moment’s pause, his face brightening with a gay, 
intelligent smile, not uncommon upon it when 
that . acuteness, which formed one point in his 
very varied character, was aroused, by some 
accidental circumstance, from the slumber into 
which it sometimes fell — “ and yet I am a fool 
to say I do not know how it is. I do know right 
well, my young friend. Men of power and sta- 
tion do not enough consider that all who sur- 
round them are more or less engaged in a race, 
whose rivalry necessarily deviates into enmity; 
and their favor, whenever it is given, is followed 
by the ill will of many toward the single possess- 
or. The more just and the more generous of the 
competitors content themselves with what they 
can obtain, or, at all events, do not deny some 
portion of merit to a more fortunate rival; but 
the baser and the meaner spirits — and they are 
the most numerous — not only envy, but hate; 
not only hate, but calumniate.” 

“ I am most grateful, sir,” for all your kind- 
ness toward me,” replied Jean Charost ; “ but I 
can not at all attribute the enmity of Monsieur 
de Royans, or any of the rest, to jealousy of your 
favor, for from the moment I entered your house- 
hold it was the same.” 

“ Oil and water do not easily mix,” answered 
the duke. “The qualities for which I esteem 
you make them hate you; not that your char- 
acter and mine are at all alike — very, very dif- 
ferent. But there be some substances, which, 
though most opposite to others, easily mingle 
with them ; others which, with more apparent 
similarity, are totally repugnant. Your feelings 
are not my feelings, your thoughts not my 
thoughts, yet I can comprehend and appreciate 
you; these men can not.” 

“I am afraid, sir,” said Jean Charost, “that I 
owe your good opinion more to a prepossession 
in my favor than to any meritorious acts of my 
own ; for, indeed, I have had no opportunity of 
serving you.” 

“Yes, you have, greatly,” replied the duke; 
“ not perhaps by acts, but by words, which prove 
often the greatest services. He who influences 
a man’s mind, De Brecy, affects him more than 
he who influences his mere earthly fortunes. I 
have often thought,” he continued, in a musing 
tone, y that we are never sufficiently grateful to 
those by whose writings, by whose example, by 
whose speech, our hearts, our feelings, or our 
reason have been formed and perfected. The 
mind has a fortune as well as the body, and the 
latter is inferior to the former. But set your 
mind at rest; they can not affect my opinion to- 
ward you. There is but one thing which has 
puzzled me a little; this child, which tht;y tell 
me has been placed by you at one of the cot- 


60 


AGNES SOREL. 


tages hard by, I would fain know who are its 
parents.” 

‘‘ On that subject I can tell your highness 
nothing,” replied Jean Charost ; but the whole 
history, as far as I can give it, I will give.” 

Hush!” said the duke, looking toward the 
picture-gallery, the door from which was opened 
by the duchess at that moment. 

“ There is nothing, sir, that I am afraid or 
ashamed to tell before the duchess,” replied Jean 
Charost. “The case may be strange; but, as 
far as it alFects me, it is a very simple one.” 

“Well, then,” said the duke, turning to the 
duchess, who was advancing slowly and some- 
what timidly, “ you shall speak on, and your nar- 
rative shall be our morning’s amusement.” 

His whole air changed in a moment ; and, with 
a gay and sparkling look, he said to the duchess, 
“ Come hither, my sweet wife, and assist at the 
trial of this young offender. He is charged be- 
fore me of preaching rather than practicing, of 
frowning, like a Franciscan, on all the lighter of- 
fenses of love ; and yet, what think you, I am 
told he has a fair young lady, who has followed 
him hither, and is boarded by him in one of the 
cottages just below the castle, when I do be- 
lieve that, were I but to give a glance at any 
pretty maiden, I should have as sour a look as 
antique abbess ever gave to wavering nun.” 

The duchess looked in Jean Charost’s face for 
an instant, and then said, “ I’ll be his surety, sir, 
that the tale is false.” 

“ Not so, indeed, your highness,” replied Jean 
Charost. “ The tale is mostly true ; but the duke 
should have added that this fair maid can not be 
three months old.” 

“Worse and worse!” cried the duke; “you 
can not escape penance for one sin, my friend, 
by pleading a still greater one. But tell us how 
all this happened ; let us hear your defense.” 

“ It is a plain and true one, sir,” replied Jean 
Charost. “ The very morning after our arrival 
here, I rode out for exercise, accompanied only 
by my lackey, Martin Grille. In a wood, per- 
haps four miles distant, we saw the smoke of a 
fire rising up not far from the road. My man is 
city born, and full of city fears. He fancied that 
every tree concealed a plunderer, and though he 
did not infect me with his apprehensions, he ex- 
cited my curiosity about this fire ; so — ” 

“Judging that a fire must have some on.e to 
light it,” said the duke, “ you went to see. That 
much has been told in every nook of the house, 
from the garret to the guest-chamber. What 
happened next ?” 

“ I tracked the marks of horse’s feet,” said Jean 
Charost, “ from the road through the wood, some 
hundred yards into the bushes, catching the 
smoke still rising blue among the dark brown 
trees, and, of course, appearing nearer as I went. 

I heard people talking loud, too, and therefore 
fancied that I could get still nearer without being 
seen. But suddenly, two men, who were lying 
hid hard by the path I had taken, started out and 
seized me, crying ‘Here is a spy — a spy!’ A 
number of others rushed up shouting and swear- 
ing, and I was soon dragged on to the spot where 
the fire was lighted, which was a small open 
space beneath an old beech-tree. There I found 
some three or four others lying on the snow, all 
fully armed but one. Horses were standing tied 
around. A lance was here and there leaning 
against the trees, and battle-axes and maces were 
at many a saddle-bow ; but I must say that the 1 


harness was somewhat rusty, and the faces of my 
new acquaintances not very clean or trim. The 
one who was unarmed, and who I supposed was 
a prisoner like myself, stood before the fire with 
his arms crossed on his chest. He was a tall 
man of middle age, with his hair veiy gray, some- 
what plainly dressed, but with an air of stern, 
grave dignity not easily forgotten.” 

“ Had he no arms at all ?” asked the duke. 

“ None whatever, sir,” replied Jean Charost ; 
“ not even sword or dagger. One large, bulky 
man, lying as quietly on the snow as if it had 
been a bed of down, had his feet to the fire, and, 
resting between them, I saw, to my surprise, a 
young child, well wrapped up, with nothing but 
the face peeping out, and sleeping soundly on a 
bed of pine branches. I should weary your high- 
ness with all that happened. At first it seemed 
that they would take my life, vowing that I had 
come to spy out their movements; then they 
would have had me go with them and make one 
of their band, giving me the choice of that or 
death. As I chose the latter, they were about to 
give it me without much ceremony, when the 
unarmed man interfered, in a tone of authority I 
had not expected to hear him use. He command- 
ed them, in short, to desist ; and, after whisper 
ing lor a moment or two with the bulky man I 
have mentioned, he pointed to the child, and told 
me that, if I would swear most solemnly to guard 
and protect her, to be a father to her, and to see 
that she was nourished and educated iu inno- 
cence and truth, they would let me go.” 

“ Did you know the man ?” asked the Duke of 
Orleans, with a look of more interest than he had 
before displayed. 

“ No, sir,” replied the young secretary. “ A 
faint, faint recollection of having somewhere seen 
a face like his I assuredly did feel ; but he cer- 
tainly seemed to know me, spoke of me as one 
attached to your highness, and asked how long I 
had left Paris. His woi-ds were wild and whirl- 
ing, indeed ; a few sentences he would speak 
correctly enough ; but they seemed forced from 
him, as if with pain, straining his eye upon the 
fire or upon the ground, and falling into silence 
again as soon as they were uttered.” 

“Was he some merchant, perhaps ?” asked the 
duke ; “ some one who has had dealings with our 
friend, Jacques Coeur?” 

“ He was no merchant, sir,” said Jean Cha- 
rost ; “ but I think, if ever I did see him before, 
it must have been with Jacques Coeur, for he 
had dealings with many men of high degree ; 
and I doubt not that this person, however plain 
his garb and strange his demeanor, is a man of 
noble blood and a high name.” 

The young man paused, as if there were more 
to be said which he hesitated to utter ; and then, 
after giving a somewhat anxious glance toward 
the duchess, he added, “ I may remember more 
incidents hereafter, sir, which I will not fail to 
tell you.” 

“Did he give you no sign or token with this 
child,” asked the duke, “ by which one rnay 
trace her family and history ? Did he tell you 
nothing of her parents?” 

“ He said he was not her father,” replied Jean 
Charost, gravely ; “ but that was all the informa- 
tion he aftbrded. He gave me this ring, too,’ 
continued the young man, producing one, “ and 
a purse of gold pieces to pay for her nourish- 
ment.” 

The duke took the ring and examined it care- 


AGNES 

fully ; but it was merely a plain gold circle with- 
out any distinctive mark. Nevertheless, Jean 
Charost thought his master’s hand shook a little 
as he held the ring, and the duchess, who was 
looking over her husband’s shoulder, said, “ It is 
a strange story. Pray, tell me. Monsieur de 
Brecy, was this gentleman the same who spoke 
to you at the inn-door upon the road ?” 

“The same, madam,” replied Jean Charost. 

“Who was he? Did you ever see him be- 
fore ?” asked the duke, turning toward his wife 
with an eager look. 

“ Never,” answered the duchess ; “ but he was 
a very singular and distinguished-looking man. 
He was a gentleman assuredly, and I should 
think a soldier ; for he had a deep scar upon the 
forehead which cut straight through the right 
eyebrow.” 

The duke returned the ring to Jean Charost in 
silence ; but the moment after he turned so dead- 
ly pale that the duchess exclaimed, “You are ill, 
my lord. You have exerted yourself too much 
to-day. You forget your late sickness, and how 
weak you are.” 

“ No, no,” replied the duke. “ I feel some- 
what faint: it will pass by in a moment. Let 
us go into the picture-gallery. I will sit down 
there in the sunshine.” 

Without reply, the duchess put her arm through 
his, and led him onward to the gallery, making 
a sign for Jean Charost to follow; and the duke, 
seating himself in a large chair, gazed over the 
walls, still marked by a lighter color here and 
there where a picture had lately hung. 

“ Those walls must be cleaned,” he said, at 
length ; “ though I doubt if the traces can be ob- 
literated.” 

“ Oh, yes,” answered the duchess, in a tone 
of sportive tenderness ; “ there is no trace of any 
of man’s acts which can not be effaced, either by 
his own deeds, or his friend’s efforts, or his God’s 
forgiveness.” 

She spoke to his thoughts rather than to his 
words, and the duke took her hand, and pressed 
his lips upon it. Then, turning to Jean Charost, 
he pointed to the picture of the duchess, saying, 
“ Is not that one worthy to remain when all the 
rest are gone ?” 

“ Most worthy, sir,” replied the young secre- 
tary, a little puzzled what to answer. “ The 
others were mere daubs to that.” 

“ What, then, you saw them ?” said the duch- 
ess. 

“ His hands burned them,” replied the duke. 

“ That strange man whom we met,” replied 
the duchess, “ declared that he was faithful and 
true, where all were false and deceitful ; and so 
he will be to us, Louis. Trust him, my husband 
— trust him.” 

“ I will,” replied the duke. “ But here comes 
Lomelini.” 

The duchess drew herself up, cast off the ten- 
der kindliness of her look, and assumed a cold 
and icy stateliness ; and the duke, inclining his 
head to Jean Charost, added, “ Leave us now, 
ray young friend. This afternoon or evening I 
shall have need of you. Then we will speak 
further ; so be not far off.” 

Jean Charost bowed and retired ; and, turning 
to the njaitre d’hotel, the duke said, in a low 
voice, “ Set Blaize, or some one you can trust, to 
watch that young man. There have been high 
words between him and .Tuvenel de Royaiis. 
See that nothing comes of it. If you remark any 


SOREL. 61 

thing suspicious, confine De Royans to his cham- 
ber, and set a guard.” 

“ Does your highness mean De Royans alone, 
or both?” asked Lomelini, softly. 

“ De Royans,” answered the duke, sharply. 
“ The one in fault, sir — the one always in fault. 
See my orders in train of execution, and then re- 
turn.’ 



CHAPTER XXII. 

All great events are made up of small inci- 
dents. The world is composed of atoms, and so 
is Fate. A man pulling a small bit of iron under 
a gun performs an act, abstractedly of not much 
greater importance than a lady when she pins 
her dress ; but let this small incident be com- 
bined with three other facts : that of there being 
a cartridge in the gun ; that of twenty thousand 
men all pulling their triggers at the same mo- 
ment ; that of there being twenty thousand men 
opposite, and you have the glorious event of a 
great battle, with its long sequence of misery 
and joy, glory and shame, affecting the world, 
perhaps, to the end of time. 

Two little incidents occurred at the chateau 
of Beaute during the day, the commencement of 
which we have just noticed, not apparently very 
much worthy of remark, but which, neverthe- 
less, must be noted down in this very accurate 
piece of chronology. The first was the arriv- 
al of a courier, whose face Jean Charost knew, 
though it was some time before he could fix it to 
the neck and shoulders of a man whom he had 
seen at Pithiviers, not in the colors of the house 
of Burgundy, but in those of fair Madame de 
Giac. The letter he bore was addressed to the 
Duke of Orleans, and it evidently troubled him 
— threw him into a fit of musing — occupied his 
thoughts for some moments — and made the duch- 
ess somewhat anxious lest evil news had reached 
her lord. 

He did not tell her the contents of the note, 
however, nor return any answer at the time, but 
sent the man away with largesse, saying he would 
'write. 

The next incident was another arrival, that of 
a party of three or four gentlemen from Paris, 
who were invited to stay at the chateau of Beau- 
te that night, and who supped with the duke and 
duchess in the great hall. The duke’s face was 
exceedingly cheerful, and his health was evident- 
ly improved since the morning, when some se- 
cret cause seemed to have moved and depressed 
him a great deal. 

The conversation principally turned upon the 
events which had lately taken place in Paris. 
They were generally of little moment ; but one 
piece of intelligence the strangers brought was 
evidently, to the duke at least, of greater import- 
ance than the rest. The guests reported confi- 
dently that the unhappy king, Charles the Sixth, 
had shown decided symptoms of one of those pe- 
riodical returns to reason which checkered with 
occasional bright gleams his dark and melancholy 
career. The duke seemed greatly pleased, mused 
upon the tidings, questioned his informant closely, 
but uttered not his own thoughts, whatever they 
might be, and retired to rest at an early hour. 

During the whole of that day, without absent- 
ing himself for any length of time from his own 
apartments, Jean Charost wandered a good dea. 
about the castle, and, to say sooth, looked some- 


62 


AGNES SOREL. 


what impatiently for Juvenel de Royans in every 
place where he was likely to be met with. He 
did not find him any where, however; and, on 
asking Signor Lomelini where he should find the 
young gentleman, he was informed, dryly, that 
Monsieur De Royans was particularly engaged in 
some affairs of the duke’s, and would not like to 
be disturbed. 

The evening passed somewhat dully for Jean 
Charost, for he confined himself almost altogeth- 
er to his own apartments, expecting every mo- 
ment that the prince would send for him ; but in 
this he was disappointed. He did not venture 
to retire to rest till nearly midnight ; but then he 
slept as soundly as in life’s happiest days; and 
he was only awakened in the morning by the 
sound of a trumpet, announcing, as l^e rightly 
judged, the departure of the preceding evening’s 
guests. 

He was dressing himself slowly and quietly, 
when Martin Grille bustled into the room, ex- 
claiming, “ Quick, sir, quick ! or you will have 
no breakfast. Have you not heard the news ? 
The duke sets out in half an hour for Paris, and 
ou will be wanted, of course. Half the house- 
old stays here with the duchess. We go with 
twenty lances and the lay brethren, of which 
class — praised be God for all things ! — you and I 
may consider ourselves.” 

“ I have had no commands,” replied Jean 
Charost ; ‘‘ but I will be ready, at all events.” 

Not many minutes elapsed, however, ere a 
notification reached him that he would be re- 
quired to accompany the prince to the capital. 
All speed was made, and breakfast hastily eaten ; 
but haste was unnecessary, for an hour or two 
elapsed before the cavalcade set out, and it did 
not reach Paris till toward the close of the day. 
The duke looked fatigued ; and, as he dismount- 
ed in the court-yard of his hotel, he called Lom- 
elini to him, saying, “ Let me have some refresh- 
ment in my own chamber, Lomelini. Send to 
the prior of the Celestins, saying that I wish to 
see him to-morrow at noon. There will be a 
banquet, too, at night. Twelve persons will be 
invited, of high degree. De Brecy, I have some- 
thing to say to you.” * 

He then walked on up the steps into the house, 
Jean Charost following close; and after a mo- 
ment or two, he tunied, saying in a low voice, 
“ Come to me as the clock strikes nine — come 
privately — by the toilet-chamber door. Enter at 
once, without knocking.” 

Several of the other attendants were following 
at some distance ; but the duke spoke almost in 
a whisper, and his words were not heard. Jean 
Charost bowed, and fell back ; but Lomelini, who 
had now become exceedingly affectionate again 
’ to the young secretary, said in his ear, “ Come 
and sup in my i*oom in half an hour. They will 
fare but ill in the hall to-night; for nothing is 
prepared here ; but we will contrive to do bet- 
ter.” . 

A few minutes afterward, the duke having been 
conducted to his chamber door, the attendants 
separated, and Jean Charost betook himself to 
his own rooms, where Martin Grille was already 
busily engaged in arranging his apparel in the 
large fixed coffers with which each chamber was 
furnished. There was a sort of nervous anxiety 
in the good man’s manner, which struck his mas- 
ter the moment he entered ; but laying his sword 
on the table, and seating himself by it, Jean 
Charost fell into a quiet, and somewhat pleasing 


fit of musing, just snfficiently awake to external 
things to remark that ever and anon Martin 
stopped his work and gave a quick glance at his 
face. At length the young gentleman rose, made 
some change in his apparel, removed the traces 
of travel from his person, and buckled on his 
sword again. 

“ Pray, sir,” said Martin Grille, in a tone of 
fear and trepidation, “ pray, sir, don’t go through 
the little hall ; for that boisterous, good-for-noth- 
ing bully, Juvenel de Royans, is there all alone, 
watching for you, I am sure. He was freed from 
his arrest this morning, and he would have fallen 
upon you on the road, I dare say, if there had not 
been so many persons round.” 

" His arrest !” said Jean Charost. “ How came 
he in arrest?” 

‘‘On account of his quarrel with you yester- 
day morning, Monsieur De Bi'ecy,” replied Mar- 
tin Grille. “Did you not know it? All the 
household heard of it.” 

“ I have been deceived,” answered Jean Cha- 
rost. “ Signor Lomelini told me he was engaged 
when I inquired for him. But you are mistaken, 
Martin : a few sharp words do not make exactly 
a quarrel, and there was no need of placing De 
Royans under arrest. It was a very useless pre- 
caution; so much so, indeed, that I think you 
must be mistaken. He must have given some 
offense to the duke: he gave none to me that 
could not easily be settled.” 

He then paused for a moment or two in 
thought, and added, “ Wait here till I return, 
and if De Royans should come, tell him I am 
supping with Signor Lomelini, but will be back 
soon. Do as I order you, and make no remon- 
strance, if you please.” 

Thus saying, he left the room, and bent his 
steps at once toward the little hall, leaving at 
some distance on the right the great dining-hall, 
from which loud sounds of merriment were 
breaking forth. He hardly expected to find Ju- 
venel de Royans still in the place where Martin 
Grille had seen him ; for the sound of gay voices 
was ever ready to lead him away. On opening 
the door, however, the faint light in the room 
showed him a figure at the other end, beyond 
the table, moodily pacing to and fro from one 
side of the room to the other; and Jean Charost 
needed no second glance to tell him who it was. 
He advanced directly toward him, taking a di- 
agonal line across the hall, so that De Royans 
could not suppose he was merely passing through. 

The 'young man instantly halted, and faced 
him ; but Jean Charost spoke first, saying, “ My 
varlet told me. Monsieur De Royans, that you 
were here alone, and as I could not find you 
yesterday, when I sought for you, I am glad of 
the opportunity of speaking a few words with 
you.” 

“ Sought for me !” cried De Royans. “ Me- 
thinks no one ought to have known better where 
I w'as than yourself.” 

“You are mistaken,” replied Jean Charost. 
“ I asked Signor Lomelini where I could find 
you, and he told me you would be occupied all 
day in some business of the duke’s.” 

“The lying old pander!” exclaimed De Roy- 
aus, bitterly. “ But our business may be soon 
settled, De Brecy. If you are inclined to risk a 
thrust here, I am ready for you. No place makes 
any difference in my eyes.” 

“ In mine it does,” replied Jean Charost, very 
quietly. 


AGNES SOREL. 


63 


“ You are not a coward, I 8iap|)ose,” cried the 
young man, impetuously. 

“ I believe not,” replied Jean Charost ; “ and 
there are few things that I should be less afraid 
of than risking a thrust with you. Monsieur de 
Royans, in any proper place and circumstances. 
Here, in a royal house, you ought to be well 
aware we should subject ourselves, by broiling, 
to disgraceful punishment, and we can well afford 
to wait for a more fitting opportunity, which I 
will not fail to give you, if you desire it.” 

“ Of course I do,” replied Juvenel de Royans. 

I do not see the of course,” replied Jean 
Charost. “ I have never injured you in any 
thing, never insulted you in any way, have borne, 
perhaps too patiently, injury and insult from you, 
and have certainly the most cause to complain.” 

“ Well, I am ready to satisfy you,” exclaimed 
De Royans, with a laugh, “ on horseback or on 
foot, with lance and shield, or sword and dag- 
ger. Do not let us spoil a good quarrel with sil- 
ly explanations. We are both of one mind, it 
seems; let us settle preliminaries at once.” 

“ I have not time to settle all preliminaries 
now,” replied Jean Charost ; “ for I am expect- 
ed in another place ; but so far we can arrange 
our plan. The day after to-morrow I will ask the 
duke’s permission to go for three days to Mantes. 
I will return at once to Meudon. You can easily 
get out of Paris for an hour or two, and join me 
there at the auberge. Then a ten minutes’ walk 
will place us where we can settle our dispute 
without risk to the survivor.” 

“ On my life, this is gallant!” cried De Royans, 
with a considerable change of expression. “You 
are a lad of spirit after all, De Brecy.” 

“You have insulted my father’s memory by 
supposing otherwise,” replied Jean Charost. 
“ But do not let us add bitterness to our quarrel. 
We understand each other. Whenever you hear 
I am gone to Mantes, remember you will find me 
the next day at Meudon — and so good-night.” 

Thus saying, he left him, and hurried to the 
eating-room of Lomelini, who would fain have 
extracted from him what the duke had said to 
him as they passed into the house; but Jean 
Charost was upon his guard, and, as soon as sup- 
per was over, returned to his own chamber. 

Martin Grille, though he had quick eyes, could 
discover no trace of emotion on his young mas- 
ter’s countenance ; and desperately tired of his 
solitary watch, he gladly received his dismissal 
for the night. A few minutes after, Jean Cha- 
rost issued from his room again, and walked 
with a silent step to the door of the duke’s toil- 
et-chamber. No attendants were in waiting, as 
was usual, and following the directions he had 
received, he opened the door and entered. He 
was surprised to find the prince dressed in man- 
tle and hood, as if ready to go out ; but upon the 
table before him was lying a perfumed note, 
open, and another fastened with rose-colored 
silk, and sealed. 

“ Welcome, De Brecy,” said the duke, with a 
gay and smiling air; “I wish you to render me 
a service, my friend. You must take this note 
for me to-night to the house of Madame De Giac, 
give it into her own hand, hear what she says, 
and bring me her answer. I shall be at the 
queen’s palace, near the Porte Barbette.” 

The blood rushed up into Jean Charost’s face, 
coverin'^ it ovei’ with a woman-like blush. It 
was th^ most painful moment he had ever as yet 
experienced in existence. His mind instantly 


rushed to a conclusion from premises that he 
could hardly define to his own mind, much less 
explain to the Duke of Orleans. He fancied him- 
self employed in the basest of services — used for 
the most disgraceful of purposes ; and yet noth- 
ing had been said which could justify him in re- 
fusing to obey. Whether he would or not, how- 
ever, and before he could consider, the words 
“ Oh, sir !” burst from his lips, and his face spoke 
the rest plainly enough. • 

4 The Duke of Orleans gazed at him with a 
frowning brow and a flashing eye, and then de- 
manded, in a loud, stern tone, “ What is it you 
mean, sir?” 

Jean Charost was silent for an instant, and then 
replied, with painful embarrassment, “ I hardly 
know what I mean, your highness — I may be 
wrong, and doubtless am wrong — but I feared 
that the errand on which your highness sends 
me might be one unbecoming me to execute, and 
which your highness might afterward regret to 
have given.” He had gone the step too far, so 
dangerous with the spoiled children of fortune. 

The anger of the duke was excessive. He 
spoke loud and sharply, reproached his young 
secretary for presuming upon his kindness and 
condescension, and reproved him in no very meas- 
ured terms for daring to intermeddle with his af- 
fairs; and Jean Charost, feeling at his heart that 
he had most assuredly exceeded, perhaps, the 
bounds of due respect, had come to conclusions 
for which there was no apparent foundation, and 
had suffered his suspicions to display themselves 
offensively, stood completely cowed before the 
prince. When the duke at length stopped, he 
answered, in a tone of sincere grief, “ I feel that 
I have erred, sir, greatly erred, and that I should 
have obeyed your commands without even pre- 
suming to judge of them. Pray remember, how- 
ever, that I am very young, perhaps too young 
for the important post I fill. If your highness 
dismisses me from your service, I can not be sur- 
prised ; but believe me, sir, wherever I go, I 
shall carry with me the same feelings of grati- 
tude and affection which had no small share in 
prompting the very conduct which has given you 
just offense.” 

“ Affection and gratitude !” said the duke, still 
in an angry tone. “ What can affection and grati- 
tude have to do with disobedience to my com- 
mands, and impertinent intrusion into my af- 
fairs ?” 

“They might, sir,” answered Jean Charost; 
“for your highness communicated to me at a 
former time some regrets, and I witnessed the 
happiness and calm of mind which followed the 
noble impulses that prompted them. Gratitude 
and affection, then, made me grieve to think that 
this very letter which I hold in my hand might 
give cause to fresh regrets, or perhaps to serious 
perils; for I am bound to say that I doubt this 
lady ; that I doubt her afffection or friendship for 
your highness ; that I am sure she is linked most 
closely to your enemies.” 

“You should not have judged of my acts at 
all,” replied the Duke of Orleans. “ What I do 
not communicate to you, you have no business to 
investigate. Your judgment of the lady may be 
right or wrong ; but in your judgment of my con- 
duct you are altogether wrong. There is nothing 
in that note which I ever can regret, and, could 
^you see its contents, you would learn at once the 
danger and presumption of intniding into what 
does not concern you. To give you the lesson* 


64 


AGNES SOREL. 


I must not sacrifice my dignity ; and though, in 
consideration of your youth, your inexperience, 
and your good intentions, I will overlook your 
error in the present instance, remember it must 
not be repeated.” 

Jean Charost moved toward the door, while 
the duke remained in thought; but, before he 
reached it, the prince’s voice was heard, exclaim- 
ing, in a more placable tone, “ De Brecy, De 
•Brecy, do you know the way?” 

“ As little in this case as in the last,” replied 
Jean Charost, with a faint smile. 

“ Come hither, come hither, poor youth,” cried 
the duke, holding out his hand to him good-hu- 
moredly. “There; tliink no more of it. All 
young men will be fools now and then. Now 
go and get a horse. You will find my mule sad- 
dled in the court. Wait there till I come. I am 
going to visit my fair sister, the queen, who is ill 
at the Hotel Barbette, and we pass not far from 
the place to which you are going. I will direct 
you, so that you can not mistake.” 

Jean Charost hurried away, and was ready in 
a few minutes. In the court he found a cream- 
colored mule richly caparisoned, and two horses 
saddled, with a few attendants on foot around; 
but the duke had not yet appeared. When he 
did come, four of the party mounted, and rode 
slowly on through the moonlight streets of Paris, 
which were now silent, and almost deserted. Aft- 
er going about half a mile, the duke reined in his 
mule, and pointing down another street which 
branched off on the right, directed Jean Charost 
to follow it, and take the second turning on the 
left. “ The first hotel,” he added, “ on the right 
is the house you want. Thbn return to this street, 
follow it out to the end, and you will see the 
Hotel Barbette before you. Bring me thither 
an account of your reception.” 

His tone was grave, and even melancholy ; 
and Jean Charost merely bowed his head in si- 
lence. He gave one glance at the duke’s face, 
from which all trace of anger had passed away, 
and then they parted — never to meet again. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Standing in the street, at the door of the house 
to which he had been directed, Jean Charost 
found a common-looking man, whose rank or 
station was hardly to be divined by his dres?; 
and drawing up his horse beside him, he askdd 
if Madame De Giac lived there. 

“ She is here,” replied the man. “ What do 
you want with her?” 

“ I have a letter to deliver to her,” answered 
Jean Charost, briefly. 

“ Give it to me,” replied the man. 

“ That can not be,” answered the young secre- 
tary. “ It must be delivered by me into her own 
hand.” 

“ Who is it from ?” inquired the other. “ She 
does not see strangers at this hour of the night.” 

The young secretary was somewhat puzzled 
what to reply, for a lingering suspicion made him 
unwilling to give the name of the duke ; but he 
had not been told to conceal it, and seeing no 
other way of obtaining admission, he answered, 
after a moment’s consideration, “ It is from his 
highness of Orleans, and I must beg you to use 
dispatch.” 

“ I will see if she will admit you,” replied the 


man ; “ but come into the court, at all events. 
You will soon have your answer.” 

Thus saying, he opened the large wooden gates 
of the yard, and, as soon as Jean Charost had en- 
tered, closed and fastened them securely. There 
was a certain degree of secrecy and mystery 
about the whole proceeding, a want of that bus- 
tle and parade common in great houses in Paris, 
which confirmed the preconceived suspicions of 
Jean Charost, and made him believe that a woman 
of gallantry was waiting for the visit of a prince 
whose devotion to her sex was but too well 
known. Dismounting, he stood by his horse’s 
side, while the man quietly glided through a 
door, hardly perceivable in the obscurity of one 
dark corner in the court-yard. The moon had 
already sunk low, and the tall houses round 
shadowed the whole of the open space in which 
the young secretary stood, so that he could but 
little see the aspect of the place, although he had 
ample time for observation. 

Nearly ten minutes elapsed before the mes- 
senger’s return; but then he came, attended by 
a page bearing a flambeau, and, in civil terras, 
desired the young gentleman to follow him to 
his mistress’s presence. 

Through ways as narrow and as crooked as 
the ways of love usually are, Jean Charost was 
conducted to a small room, which would nowa- 
days probably be called a boudoir, where, even 
without the contrast of the poor, naked stone 
passages through which he had passed, every 
thing would have appeared luxurious and splen- 
did in the highest degree. Rumor attributed to 
the beautiful lady whom he went to visit, a 
princely lover, who some years before had com- 
manded an army against the Ottomans, had re- 
ceived a defeat which rendered him morose and 
harsh throughout the rest of life, but had acquired, 
during an easy captivity among the Mussulmans, 
a taste for Oriental luxury, which never aban- 
doned him. All within the chamber to which 
Jean Charost was now introduced spoke that 
the lady had not been uninfluenced by her lov- 
er’s habits. Articles of furniture little known in 
France were seen in various parts of the room; 
piles of cushions, carpets of innumerable dyes, 
and low sofas or ottomans; while, even in the 
midst of winter, the odor of roses pervaded the 
whole apartment. Madame de Giac herself, neg- 
ligently dressed, but looking wonderfully beau- 
tiful, was reclining on cushions, with a light on 
a low table by her side, and, on the approach of 
Jean Charost, she received him more as an old 
and dear friend than a mere accidental acquaint- 
ance. A radiant smile was upon her lips; she 
made him sit down beside her, and in her tone 
there was a blandishing softness, which he felt 
was very engaging. For a minute or two she 
held the letter of the Duke of Orleans unopened 
in her hand, while she asked him questions about 
his journey from Pithiviers to Blois, and his re- 
turn. At length, however, she opened the billet 
and read it, not so little observed as she imagined 
herself; for Jean Charost’s eyes were fixed upon 
her, marking the various expressions of her coun- 
tenance. At first, her glance at the note was 
careless ; but speedily her eyes fixed upon the 
lines with an intense, eager look. Her brow 
contracted, her nostril expanded, her beautiful 
upper lip quivered, and that fair face for an in- 
stant took upon it the look of a demon. Sud- 
denly, however, she recollected herself, smooth- 
ed her brow, recalled the wandering lightning 


AGNES SOREL. 


65 


of her eyes, and folding the note, she curled it 
between her fingers, saying, “ I must write an 
answer, my dear young friend. I will not be 
long ; wait for me here and rising gracefully, 
she gathered her flowing drapery around her, 
and passed out by a door behind the cushions. 

The door was closed carefully; but Jean Cha- 
rost had good reason to believe that the time of 
Madame De Giac was occupied in other employ- 
ment than writing. A murmur of voices was 
heard, in which her own sweet tones mingled 
with others harsher and louder. The words used 
could no't be distinguished, but the conversation 
seemed eager and animated, beginning the mo- 
ment she entered, and rising and falling in loud- 
ness, as if the speakers were sometimes canied 
away by the topic, sometimes fearful of being 
overheard. 

Jean Charost was no great casuist, and cer- 
tainly, in all ordinary cases, he would have felt 
ashamed to listen to any conversation not intend- 
ed for his ears. Neither, on this occasion, did he 
actually listen. He moved not from his seat; 
he even took up and examined a beautiful gold- 
en-sheathed poniard with a jeweled hilt, which 
lay upon the table where stood the light. But 
there was a doubt, a suspicion, an apprehension 
of he knew not what in his mind, which, if well- 
founded, might perhaps have justified him in his 
own eyes in actually trying to hear what was 
passing ; for assuredly he would have thought it 
no want of honor thus to detect the devices, of an 
enemy. The voice of Mada,me De Giac was not 
easily forgotten by one who had once heard it; 
and the rougher, sterner tones that mingled in 
the conversation seemed likewise familiar to the 
young secretary’s ear. Both those who were 
speaking he believed to be inimical to his royal 
master. He heard nothing distinctly, however, 
but the last few words that were spoken. 

It would seem that Madame De Giac had ap- 
proached close to the door, and laid her hand 
upon the lock, and the other speaker raised his 
voice, adding to some words which were lost, the 
following, in an imperative tone, “As long as 
possible, remember — by any means !” ^ 

Madame De Giac’s murmured reply was not 
intelligible to the young secretary ; but then came 
a coarse laugh, and the deeper voice answered, 
“ No, no. I do not mean that; but by force, if 
need be.” 

“Well, then, tell them,” said the fair lady; 
but what was to be told escaped unheard by 
Jean Charost; for she dropped her voice lower 
than ever, and, a moment after, re-entered the 
room. 

Her face was all fair and smiling, and before 
she spoke, she seated herself again on the cush- 
ions, paused thoughtfully, and, looking at the dag- 
ger which the young gentleman replaced as she 
entered, said playfully, “ Do not jest with edged 
tools. I hope you did not take the poniard out 
of its sheath. It comes from Italy— from the very 
town of the sweet Duchess of Orleans ; and they 
tell me that the point is poisoned, so that the 
slightest scratch would produce speedy death. 
It has never been drawn since I had it, and never 
shall be with my will.” 

“ I did not presume to draw it,” said Jean Cha- 
rost. “But may I crave your answer to his high- 
ness’s note?” 

“ How wonderfully formal we are,” said Ma- 
dame De Giac, with a gay laugh. “ This chival- 
rous reverence for the fair, which boys are taught 
E 


in their school days, is nothing but a sad device 
of old women and jealous husbands. It is state, 
and dress, and grave surroundings, De Brecy, that 
makes us divinities. A princess and a page, in a 
little cabinet like this, are but a woman and a 
man. Due propriety, of course, is right; but 
forms and reverence all nonsense.” 

“ Beauty and rank have both their reverence, 
madam,” replied Jean Charost. “ But at the 
present moment, all other things aside, I am com- 
pelled to think of his highness’s business ; for he 
is waiting for me now at the Hotel Barbette, ex- 
pecting anxiously, I doubt not, your answer.” 

The conversation that followed does not re- 
quire detail. Madame De Giac was prodigal of 
blandishments, and, skilled in every female art, 
contrived to while away some twenty minutes 
without giving the young secretary any reply to 
bear to his master. 

When at length she found that she could not 
detain him any longer without some definite an 
swer, she turned to the subject of the note, and 
contrived to waste some more precious time on it. 

“ What if I were to send the duke a very an- 
gry message?” she said. 

“I should certainly deliver it,” replied Jean 
Charost. “ But I would rather that you wrote 
it.” 

“ No, I have changed my mind about that,” 
she answered. “ I will not write. You may tell 
him I think him a base, ungrateful man, unwor- 
thy of a lady’s letter. Will you tell him that?” 

“ Precisely, madam ; word for word,” replied 
Jean Charost. 

“ Then you are bolder with men than women,” 
replied the lady, with a laugh slightly sarcastic. 
“ Stay, stay ; I have not half done yet. Say to 
the duke I am of a forgiving nature, and, if he 
does proper penance, and comes to sue for par- 
don, he may perhaps find mercy. Whither are 
you going so fast? You can not get out of this 
enchanted castle as easily as you think, good 
youth ; at least not without my consent.” 

“ I pray, then, give it to me, madam,” said 
Jean Charost; “for I really fear that his high- 
ness will be angry at my long delay.” 

“ Poor youth ! what a frightened thing it is,”" 
said the lady. “ Well, you shall go ; but let me- 
look at the duke’s note again, in case I have aiijr 
thing to add ;” and she unfolded the billet, which, 
she still held in her hand, and looked at it by the 
light. Again Jean Charost marked that litter,, 
fiend-like scowl come upon her countenance, and^ 
in this instance, the feelings that it indicated found 
some expression in words. 

“ Either you or his priest are making a monk 
of him,” she said, bittei’ly ; “ but it matters not.. 
Tell him what I have said.” And murmuring a 
few more indistinct words to herself, she rang a 
small silver bell which lay upon the cushions be- 
side her, and the man who had given Jean Cha- 
rost admission speedily appeared. 

The lady looked at him keenly for an instant,, 
and the young secretary thought he saw a glance 
of intelligence pass from his face to hers. 

“ Light this young gentleman out,” said Ma- 
dame De Giac. “ You are a young fool, De Bre- 
cy,” she added, laughingly ; “ but that is no lault 
of yours or mine. Nature made you so, and I 
can not mend you; and so, good-night.” 

Jean Charost bowed low, and followed the 
man out of the room ; bat, as he did so, he drew 
his sword-hilt a little forward, not w’ell knowing 
what was to come next. Madame De Giac eyed 


66 AGNES 

him with a sarcastic smile, and the door closed 
upon him. 

The man lighted him silently, carefully along 
the narrow, tortuous passage, and down the steep 
stair-case by which he had entered, holding the 
light low, that he might see his way. When they 
reached the small door which led into the court, 
he unbolted it, and held it back for the young 
gentleman to go forth; but the moment Jean 
Charost had passed out, the door was closed and 
bolted. 

“Not very courteous,” thought Jean Charost. 
“ But doubtless he takes his tone from his lady’s 
last words. What a dark night it is ?” 

For a minute or two, in the sudden obsc rity 
after the light was withdrawn, he could discern 
none of the objects around him, and it was not 
till his eye had become more accustomed to the 
darkness that he discovered his horse standing 
fastened to a ring let into the building. He de- 
tached him quickly, and led him to the great 
gates ; but here a difficulty presented itself. The 
large wooden bar was easily removed, and the 
bolts drawn back ; but still the gates would not 
open. The young gentleman felt them all over 
in search of another fastening ; but he could find 
none ; and he then turned to a little sort of guard- 
room on the right of the entrance, attached to 
almost all the large houses of Paris in that day, 
and transformed, in after and more peaceable 
times, into a porter’s lodge. All was dark and 
silent within, however; the door closed; and no 
answer w'as returned when the young gentleman 
knocked. He then tried another door, in the 
middle of the great facade of the building ; but 
there, also, the door was locked, and he could 
make no one hear. His only resource, then, was 
the small postern by which he had been admit- 
ted; but here also he was disappointed, and he 
began to comprehend that he was intentionally 
detained. He was naturally the more impatient 
to escape ; and, abandoning all ceremony, he 
knocked hard with the hilt of his dagger on the 
several doors, trying them in turns. But it was 
all in vain. There were things doing which 
made his importunity of small consequence. 

With an angry and impatient heart, and a mind 
wandering through a world of conjecture, he at 
length thrust his dagger back into the sheath, 
and stood and listened near the great gates, de- 
termined, if he heard a passing step in the street, 
to call loudly for assistance. All was still, how- 
-ever, for ten minutes, and then came suddenly a 
sound of loud voices and indistinct cries, as if 
there was^ tumult at some distance. Jean Cha- 
a’ost’s heart beat quick, though there seemed no 
definite link of connection between his own fate 
-and the sounds he heard. A minute or two after, 
however, he was startled by a nearer noise — a 
Tattling and grating sound — and he had just time 
to draw his horse away ere the gates opened of 
their own accord, and rolled back without any 
one appearing to move them. A hoarse and un- 
pleasant laugh, at the same moment, sounded on 
Jean Charost’s ear, and, looking forth into the 
street, he saw two or three dark figures running 
■quickly forward in one direction. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

There was in Paris an old irregular street, 
■called the Street of the Old Temple, which had 


SOREL. 

been built out toward the Porte Barbette at a 
period when the capital of France was much 
smaller in extent than in the reign of King Charles 
the Sixth. No order or regularity had been pre- 
served, although one side of the street had for 
some distance been kept in a direct line by an 
antique wall, built, it is said, by the voluntary 
contributions or personal labors of different mem- 
bers of the famous Order of the Temple, the 
brethren of which, though professing poverty, 
were often more akin to Dives than to Lazarus. 
The other side of the street, however, had been 
filled up by the houses and gardens of various 
individuals, each walking in the light of his own 
eyes, and using his discretion as to how far his 
premises should encroach upon, how far recede 
from the highway. Thus, when sun or moon 
was up, and shining down the street, a number 
of picturesque shadows crossed it, offering a 
curious pattern of light and shade, varying with 
every hour. 

A strange custom existed in those days, which 
has only been perpetuated, that I know of, in 
some towns of the Tyrol, of affixing to each house 
its own particular sign, which served, as num- 
bers do in the present day, to distinguish it from 
all others in the same street. Sometimes these 
signs or emblems projected in the form of a ban- 
ner from the walls of the house, overhanging the 
street, and showing the golden cross, or the silver 
cross, or the red ball, the lion, the swan, or the 
hart, to every one who rode along. Sometimes, 
with better taste, but perhaps with less conven- 
ience to the passenger in search of a house he did 
not know, the emblem chosen by the proprietor 
was built into the solid masonry, or placed in a 
little Gothic niche constructed for the purpose. 
The latter was generally the case where angel, 
or patron saint, prophet, or holy man was the 
chosen device, and especially so when any of the 
persons of the Holy Trinity, for whom the Pa- 
risians seemed to have more love than reverence, 
gave a name to the building. 

Thus, at the comer of the Street of the Old 
Temple, and another which led into it, a beauti- 
ful and elaborate niche with a baldachin of fret- 
ted stone, and a richly-carved pediment, offered 
to the eyes of the passers-fey a very-well exe- 
cuted figure of the Virgin, holding in her arms the 
infant Savior, and from this image the house on 
which it was affixed obtained the name of the 
Hotel de Notre Dame. Notwithstanding the sanc- 
tity of the emblem, and the beauty of the build- 
ing — for it was of the finest style of French ar- 
chitecture, then in its decay — the house had been 
very little inhabited for some twenty or thirty 
years. It had been found too small and incom- 
modious for modern taste. Men had built them- 
selves larger dwellings, and, although this had 
not been suffered to become actually dilapidated, 
there were evident traces of neglect about it — 
casements broken and distorted, doors and gates 
on which unforbidden urchins carved grotesque 
faces and letters hardly less fantastical, mold- 
ings and cornices time-worn and moldering, and 
stones gathering lichen and soot with awful ra- 
pidity. 

All was darkness along the front of that house. 
No torches blazed before it; no window shot 
forth a ray ; and the sinking moon cast a black 
shadow across the street, and half way up the 
wall on the other side. 

Nevertheless, in one room of that house there 
were lamps lighted, and a blazing fire upon the 


AGNES SOREL. 


67 


hearth. Wine, too, was upon the table, rich, 
and in abundance ; but yet it was hardly tasted ; 
for there were passions busy in that room, more 
powerful than wine. It was low in the ceiling, 
the walls covered with hangings of leather which 
had once been gilt, and painted with various de- 
vices but from which all traces of human handi- 
work had nearly vanished, leaving nothing but a 
gloomy, dark drapery on the wall, which seem- 
ed rather to suck in than return the rays. It was 
large and well proportioned, however. The 
great massy beams which, any one could touch 
with their hand, were supported by four stout 
stone pillars, and the whole light centered in the 
middle of the room, leaving a fringe, as it were, 
of obscurity all round. If numbers could make 
any place gay, that room or hall would have 
been cheerful enough; for not less than seven- 
teen or eighteen persons were collected there, 
and many of them appeared persons of no in- 
ferior degree. Each was more or less armed, 
and battle-axes, maces, and heavy swords lay 
around; but a solemn, gloomy stillness hung 
upon the whole party. It was evidently no fes- 
tal occasion on which they met. The wine, as 
I have said, had no charms for them; conversa- 
tion had as little. 

One tall powerful man sat before the chimney 
with his mailed arms crossed upon his chest, and 
his eyes fixed upon the flickering blaze in the 
fire-place. Another was seated near the table, 
drawing, with the end of a straw, wild, fantastic 
figures on the board with some wine which had 
been spilled. Some dull men at a distance nod- 
ded, and others, with their hands upon their 
brows, and eyes bent down, remained in heavy 
thought. 

At length one of them spoke, “ Tedious work 
this,” he said. “ Action suits me best. 1 love 
not to lie like a spider at the bottom of his web, 
waiting till the fly buzzes into his nest. Here 
we have been five or six long days, and nothing 
done. I will not wait longer than to-morrow’s 
sunrise, whatever you may say, Ralph.” 

The other, who was gazing into the fire, turn- 
ed his head a little, answering in a gruff tone, 
“ I tell you he is now in Paris. He arrived this 
very evening. We shall hear more anon.” 

The conversation ceased ; for no one else took 
it up, and each of the speakers fell into silence 
again. 

Some quarter of an hour passed, and then the 
one who was at the table started and seemed to 
listen. 

There was certainly a step in the passage with- 
out, and the moment after there was a knock 
at the door. One of those within advanced, and 
inquired who was there. 

‘‘ Ich Houde,” answered a voice, and imme- 
diately the door was^inlocked, and a ponderous 
bolt withdrawn. 

All eyes were now turned toward the entrance, 
with a look which I do not know how to de- 
scribe, except by saying it was one of fierce ex- 
pectation. At first the obscurity at the further 
side of the room prevented those who sat near 
the light from seeing who it was that entered; 
but a broad-chested, powerful man, wrapped in 
a crimson mantle, with a very large hood throvvn 
back upon his shoulders, and on his head a plain 
brown barret cap with a heron’s feather in it, 
advanced rapidly toward the table, inquiring, 
“ Where is Actonville ?” 

His face was deadly pale, and even his lips had 


lost their color; but there was no emotion to be 
discovered by the movement of any feature. All 
was stern, and resolute, and keen. 

“ Here,” said the man who had been sitting 
by the fire, rising as he spoke. 

The other advanced close to him, and spoke 
something in a whisper. Actonville rejoined in 
the same low tone ; and then the other answered, 
louder, “ I have provided for all that. Thomas 
of Courthose will bear him a message from the 
king. Be quick ; for he will soon be there.” 

“ How got you the news, sir ?” asked Acton- 
ville. 

“ By the fool, to be sure — by the fool !” replied 
the other. “ It is all certain ; though a fool told 
it.” 

‘‘ The moon must be up,” said Actonville. 
“ Were it not better to do it as he returns?” 

“ He will have many more with him,” answer- 
ed the man who had just entered; “and the 
moon is down.” 

“ Oh, moon or no moon, many or few,” ex- 
claimed the man who had been sitting at the ta- 
ble, “let us about it at once. Brave men fear 
no numbers; and only dogs are scared by the 
moon.” Some more conversation, brief, sharp, 
and eager, sometimes in whispers, sometimes 
aloud, occupied a space, perhaps, of three min- 
utes, and then all was the bustle of preparation. 
Swords, axes, maces were taken up, and a few 
inquiries were made and answered. 

“ Are the horses all ready?” asked one. 

“ They only want unhooking,” replied an- 
other. 

“ The straw is piled up in both the rooms,” 
said a third. “ Shall I fire it now?” 

“ No, no ! Are you mad ?” replied Actonville. 
“ Not till it is done.” 

“ Then I’ll put the lantern ready,” replied the 
other. 

“ Where will you be, sir?” asked Actonville. 

“ Close at hand,” replied the man in the crim- 
son mantle. “ But we lose time. Go out quiet- 
ly, one by one, and leave the door open. Put 
out the lights, William of Courthose. I have a 
lantern here, under my cloak.” 

The lights were immediately extinguished, 
and, by the flickering of the fire, eighteen shad- 
owy forms were seen to pass out of the room like 
ghosts. Through the long passage from the back 
to the front of the house, they went as silently as 
their arms would permit, and then gliding down 
the irregular side of the road, one by one, they 
disappeared from their rank to lay in wait in 
what the prophet calls “ the thievish corners of 
the streets.” 

The man who had last joined them remained 
a^one, standing before the fire. His arms were 
crossed upon his chest ; a lantern which he had 
carried stood on the ground by his side ; and his 
eyes were fixed upon a log from which a small 
thin flame, yellow at the base, and blue at the 
top, rose up, wavering fitfully. He watched it 
for some five or six minutes. Suddenly it leaped 
up and vanished. 

“Ha!” said that dark, stem man, and turned 
him to the door. Ere he reached it, there was a 
loud outcry from without — a cry of pain and 
strife. He paused and trembled. What was in 
his bosom then ? God only knows. Man never 
knew. 



68 


AGNES SOREL. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The gates of the H6tel Barbette — formerly the 
Hotel Montaigne — opened instantly to the Duke 
of Orleans, and he was kept but a moment in the 
great hall ere the queen gave an order for his 
admission, although still suffering from illness. 
He found the beautiful but vindictive Isabella in 
bed ; but that formed no objection in those days 
to the reception of visitors by a lady of even 
queenly rank; and, after having embraced his 
fair sister-in-law, he sat down by her bedside, 
and the room was soon cleared of the attendants. 

“You have received my note, Louis she 
said, laying her hand tenderly upon his; for there 
is every reason to believe that the Duke of Or- 
leans was the only one toward whom she ever 
entertained any sincere affection. 

“ I did, sweet Isabella,” answered the duke ; 
“ and I came at once to see what was your will.” 

“How many men bro*ught you with you?” 
asked the queen. “ I hope there is no fool-hardi- 
ness, Orleans?” 

“ Oh, in Paris I have plenty,” replied the duke; 
“ hard upon five hundred. The rest I left with 
Valentine at Beaute, for she is going to Chateau 
Thierry to gather all her children together. But 
if you mean how many I have brought hither to- 
night, good faith ! Isabella, not many — two men 
on horseback, and half a dozen on foot.” 

“ Imprudent man !” exclaimed the queen. 
“ Do you not know that Burgundy is here ?” 

“ Oh yes,” answered the Duke of Orleans. 

‘ He supped with me this night, quite irwit tran- 
quil way. ” 

“ Be not deceived — ^be not deceived, Louis of 
Orleans,” answered the queen. “ Who can feign 
friendship and mean enmity so well as John of 
Burgundy ? And I tell you that, to my certain 
knowledge, he is caballing against you even now. 
Your life is never safe when you are near him 
unless you be surrounded by your men-at-arms.” 

“ Well, then, we do not play an equal game,” 
replied the duke ; “ for his life is as safe with 
me as with his dearest friend.” 

“ Did he know that you were coming hither ?” 
asked the queen, with an anxious look. 

“ Assuredly,” replied the duke ; but then he 
added, with a gay laugh, “ He suspected, I fan- 
cy, from his questions, that I was going elsewhere 
first, though I told him I was not.” 

“ Whex’e — where ?” demanded the queen. 

“ To Madame De Giac’s,” replied the Duke of 
Orleans, with a look of arch meaning. 

“ The serpent !” muttered Isabella. “ And 
you have not been ?” 

“ Assuredly not,” replied her brother-in-law. 

“ Then he knows you liave come here,” said 
Isabella, thoughtfully ; “ and the way back will 
be dangerous. You shall not go, Orleans, till 
you have sent for a better escort.” 

“ Well, kind sister, if it will give you ease, it 
shall be done,” replied the duke. “ I will tell 
one of my men to bring me a party of horse from 
the hotel.” 

“ Let it be large enough,” said the queen, em- 
phatically. 

The duke smiled, and left the room in search 
of his attendants; but neither of his two squires 
could be found. Heaven knows where they 
were, or what they were doing ; but the queen 
had a court of very pretty ladies at the Hotel 
Barbette, who were not scrupulous of granting 
their conversation to gay young gentlemen. A 


young German page, fair-haired and gentle, lolled 
languidly on a settle in the great hall, but he 
knew little of Paris, and the Duke of Orleans 
sent for one of his footmen, and ordered him to 
take one of the squires’ horses, return to the Ho- 
tel d’Orleans, and bring up twenty lances with- 
in an hour. He then went back to the cham- 
ber of the queen, and sat conversing with her for 
about ten minutes, when they were interrupted 
by the entrance of one of her ladies, who brought 
intelligence that a messenger from the H6tel St. 
Pol had arrived, demanding instant audience of 
the duke. 

“ Who is he ?” asked Isabella, gazing at the 
lady, her suspicions evidently all awake. “ How 
did they know at the Hotel St. Pol that his high- 
ness was here ?” 

“ It is Thomas of Courthose, your majesty,” 
replied the lady ; “ and he says he has been at 
the Hotel d’Orleans, whence he was sent hither.” 

“ By your good leave, then, fair sister, we will 
admit him,” said the duke ; and in a minute or 
two after Thomas of Courthose, one of the im- 
mediate attendants of the king, was ushered into 
the room. He was not a man of pleasing aspect: 
black-haired, down-looked, and with the eyes so 
close together as to give almost the appearance 
of a squint; but both the duke and the queen 
knew him well, and suspicion was lulled to sleep. 

Approaching the Duke of Orleans, with a lowly 
reverence, first to the queen and then to him, the 
man said, “ I have been commanded by his royal 
majesty to inform your highness that he wishes 
to see you instantly, on business which touches 
nearly both you and himself.” 

“ I will obey at once,” replied the duke. 
“Tell my people, as you pass, to get ready. I 
will be in the court in five minutes.” 

“ Stay, Orleans, stay !” cried the queen, as the 
man quitted the room. “You had better wait 
for your escort, dear brother.” 

The duke only laughed at her fears, however^ 
representing that his duty to the king called for 
his immediate obedience, and adding, “ I shall 
go safer by that road than any other. They 
know that I came hither late, and will conclude 
that I shall return by the same way. If Bur- 
gundy intends to play me any scurvy trick — ar- 
rest, imprison, or otherwise maltreat me — he will 
post his horsemen in that direction, and by going 
round I shall avoid them. Nay, nay, Isabella, 
example of disobedience to my king shall never 
be set by Louis of Orleans.” 

The queen saw him depart with a sigh, but 
the duke descended to the court without fear, 
and spoke gayly to his attendants, whom he 
found assembled. 

“ We do not know what to do, sir,” said one 
of the squires, stepping forward. “ Leonard has 
taken away one of the hors^, and now there is 
but one beast to two squires.” 

“ Let his master mount him, and the other 
jump up behind,” said the duke, laughing. “ Did 
you never see two men upon one horse ?” 

In the mean while his own mule was brought 
forward, and, setting his foot in the stirrup, the 
duke seated himself somewhat slowly. Then, 
looking up to the sky, he said, “ The moon is 
down, and it has become marvelous dark. If 
you have torches, light them.” 

About two minutes were spent in lighting the 
torches, and then the gates of the Hotel Barbette 
were thrown open. The two squires on one 
horse went first, and the duke on his mule came 


AGNES 

after, the German page following close, with his 
hand resting on the embossed crupper, while two 
men, with torches lighted, walked on either side. 
The porter at the gates looked after them for a 
moment as they took their way down the Street 
of the Old Temple, and then drew to the heavy 
leaves, and barred the gates for the night. 

. was still and silent in the street, and the 
little procession walked on at a slow pace for 
some two hundred yards. The torch-light then 
seemed to flash upon some object suddenly, 
which the horse bearing the two squires had not 
before seen, for the beast started, plunged, and 
then dashed violently forward down the street, 
nearly throwing the hindmost horseman to the 
ground. The duke spurred forward his mule 
somewhat sharply, but he had not gone a dozen 
yards when an armed man darted out from be- 
hind the dark angle of the neighboring house. 
Another rushed out almost at the same moment 
from one of the deep, arched gateways of the 
time, and a number more were seen hurrying 
up, with the torch-light flashing upon cuirasses, 
battle-axes, and maces. Two of the light-bear- 
ers cast down their torches and fled ; a third was 
knocked down by the rush of men coming up; 
and at the same moment a strong, armed hand 
was laid upon the Duke of Orleans’s rein. 

The dauntless prince spurred on his mule 
against the man who held it, without attempting 
to turn its head ; and it would seem that he still 
doubted that he was the real object of attack, for 
while the assassin shouted loudly, “ Kill him — 
kill him !” he raised his voice loud above the 
rest, exclaiming, How now ; I am the Duke of 
Orleans 1” 

’Tis him we want,” cried a deep voice close 
by ; and as the duke put his hand to the hilt of 
his sword, a tremendous blow of an ax fell upon 
his wrist, cutting through muscle, and sinew, and 
bone. The next instant he was struck heavily 
on the head with a mace, and hurled backward 
from the saddle. But even then there was one 
found faithful. The young German boy who fol- 
lowed cast himself instantly upon the body of his 
lord, to shield him from the blows that were 
falling thick upon him. But it was all in vain. 
The battle-ax and the mace terminated the poor 
lad’s existence in a moment ; his body was drag- 
ged from that of the prostrate prince ; and a blow 
with a spiked iron club dashed to pieces the 
skull of the gay and gallant Louis of Orleans. 

Shouts and cries of various kinds had mingled 
with the fray, but after that last blow fell there 
came a sudden silence. Three of the torches were 
extinguished ; the bearers were fled. One faint 
light only flickered on the gi’ound, throwing a 
red and fitful glare upon the bloody bodies of 
the dead, and the grim, fierce countenances of 
the murderers. 

In the midst of that silence, a man in a crim- 
son mantle and hood came quickly forward, 
bearing a lantern in his hand. 

The assassins showed no apprehension of his 
presence, and holding the light to the face of the 
dead man, he gazed on him for an instant with a 
stern, hard, unchanged expression, and then said, 
** It is he !” 

Perhaps some convulsive movement crossed 
the features from which real life had already pass- 
ed away,' for that stern, gloomy man snatched a 
rakce from the hand of one standing near, and 
struck another heavy blow upon the head of the 
corpse, saying, “ Out with the last spark !” 


SOREL. 69 

There were some eight or ten persons imme- 
diately round the spot where the prince had fall- 
en ; but others were scattered at a little distance 
up and down the strept. Suddenly a voice cried, 
“ Hark !” and the sound of a horse’s feet was 
heard trotting quick. 

“Away!” cried the man in the red mantle. 
“ Fire the house, and disperse. You know your 
roads. Away!” 

Then came a distant cry, as if from the gates 
of the queen’s palace, of “ Help ! help ! Murder ! 
murder !” but, the next moment, it was almost 
drowned in a shout of “Fire ! fire !” Dark vol- 
umes of smoke began to issue from the’ windowi^ 
of the Hotel Notre Dame, and flashes of flame 
broke forth upon the street, while a torrent of 
sparks rushed upward into the air. All around 
the scene of the murder became enveloped in 
vapor and obscurity, with the red light tinging 
the thick, heavy wreaths of smoke, and serving 
just to show figures come and go, still increasing 
in number, and gathering round the fatal spot in 
a small, agitated crowd. But the actors in the 
tragedy had disappeared. Now here, now there, 
one or another might have been seen crossing 
the bloody-looking haze of the air, and making 
for some of the various streets that led away 
from the place of the slaughter, till at length all 
were gone, and nothing but horrified spectators 
of their bloody handiwork remained. 

Few, if any, remained to look at the burning 
house, and none attempted to extinguish the 
flames ; for the cry had already gone abroad that 
the Duke of Orleans was murdered, and the mul- 
titude hurried forward to the place where he lay. 
Those who did stop for an instant before the Ho- 
tel Notre Dame, remarked a quantity of lighted 
straw borne out from the doors and windows by 
the rush of the fire, and some of them heard the 
quick sound of hoofs at a little distance, as if a 
small party of horse had galloped away from the 
back of the building. 

Few thought it needful, however, to inquire for 
or pursue the murderers. A sort of stupor seem- 
ed to have seized all but one of those who arrived 
the first. He was a poor mechanic ; and, seeing 
an armed man, with a mace in his hand, glide 
across the street, he followed him with a quick 
step, traced him through several streets, paused 
in fear when the other paused, turned when he 
turned, and dogged him till he entered the gates 
of the Hotel d’Artois, the residence of the Duke 
of Burgundy. 

In the mean while, the body of the unhappy 
prince, and that of the poor page who had sacri- 
ficed his life for him, were carried into a church 
hard by. The news spread like lightning through 
the whole town; neighbor told it to neighbor; 
many were roused Irom their sleep to hear the 
tidings, and agitation and tumult spread through 
Paris. Every sort of vague alarm, every sort of 
wild rumor was received and encouraged. 

The Queen Isabella of Bavaria, horrified and 
apprehensive, caused herself to be placed in a 
litter, and carried to the Hotel St. Pol. A num- 
ber of loyal noblemen, believing the king’s own 
life in danger, armed themselves and their fol- 
lowers, and turned the court of the palace into a 
fortress. But the followers of the deceased duke 
remained for some hours almost stupefied with 
terror, and only recovered themselves to give 
way to ra^e and indignation, which produced 
many a disastrous consequence in after days. 
In the mean time, the church of the White Fri* 


70 


AGNES SOREL. 


ars was not deserted. The brethren themselves 
gathered around the dead bodies, and, with ta- 
pers lighted, and the solemn organ playing, 
chanted all night the services of the dead. High 
nobles and princes, too, flocked into the church 
with heavy hearts and agitated minds. The 
Duke of Bourbon and the venerable Duke of 
Berri were the first. Then came the King of 
Navarre, then the Duke of Burgundy, and then 
the King of Sicily, who had anived in Paris only 
on the preceding morning. 

All were profuse of lamentations, and of exe- 
crations against the murderers; but none more 
so than the Duke of Burgundy, who declared 
that “ never, in the city of Paris, had been per- 
petrated so horrible and sad a murder.”* He 
could even weep, too ; but while the words were 
on his lips, and the tears were in his eyes, some 
one pulled him by the cloak, and turning round 
his head, he saw one of his most familiar serv- 
ants. Nothing was said ; but there was a look 
in the man’s eyes which demanded attention, 
and, after a moment or two, the duke retired 
with him into the chapel of St. William. 

‘‘ They have taken one of those suspected of 
conniving at the murder,” whispered the man. 

“ Which ? Who — who is he ?” asked the duke, 
eagerly. 

“ No one your highness knows,” replied the 
man, gazing in the duke’s face, though the chap- 
el was very dark. “ He is a young gentleman, 
said to be the duke’s secretary. Monsieur Charost 
de Brecy.” 

The duke stamped with his foot upon the 
ground, saying, with an oath, “ That may ruin 
all. See that he be freed as soon as possible, be- 
fore he is examined.” 

It can not be done, I fear,” rejoined the man, 
in the same low tone. “ He is in the hands of 
William de Tignonville, the pHvot. But can not 
the murder be cast on him, sir? They say he 
and the duke were heard disputing loud this 
night; and that, on the way to the Hotel Bar- 
bette, he suddenly turned and rode away from 
his royal master.” 

‘‘Folly and nonsense!” said the duke, impa- 
tiently; and then he fell into a fit of thought, 
adding, in a musing tone, “ This must be provid- 
ed for. But not so — not so. Well, we will see. 
Leave him where he is. He must be taught si- 
lence, if he would have safety.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

We must now once more follow the course of 
Jean Charost. It has been said that when the 
gates of the house of Madame De Giac (by a con- 
trivance very common at that time in Paris for 
saving the trouble of the porter and the time of 
the visitor, but with which he was unacquainted) 
rolled back on their hinges, without the visible 
intervention of any human being, he saw several 
persons running up the street in the direction 
which he himself intended to take. Man has 
usually a propensity to hurry in the same course 
as others, and, springing on his horse’s back, Jean 
Charost spurred on somewhat more quickly than 
he might have done had he seen no one running. 
As he advanced, he saw, in the direction of the 
Porte Barbette, a lurid glare beginning to rise 
above the houses, and glimmering upon large roll- 


ing volumes of heavy smoke. The next instant, 
loud voices, shouting, reached his ear; but with 
the cries of fire he fancied there were mingled 
cries of murder. On up the street he dashed, and 
soon found himself at the corner of the Street of 
the Old Temple ; but he could make nothing of 
the scene before his eyes. The house in front 
was on fire in various places, and would evident- 
ly soon be totally destroyed ; but though there 
were a number of people in the street, running 
hither and thither in wild disorder, few stopped 
before the burning building even for a single 
moment, and most hurried past at once to a spot 
somewhat further down the street. 

All who had collected as yet were on foot, 
though he could see a horse further up toward 
the city gate ; but while he was looking round him 
with some wonder, and hesitating whether he 
should first go on to inquire what was the mat- 
ter where the principal crowd was collected, or 
ride at once to the Hotel Barbette, a man in the 
royal liveries, with a halbert in his hand, crossed 
and looked hard at him. Suddenly another came 
running up the street, completely armed except 
the head, which was bare. The man with the 
halbert instantly stopped the other, apparently 
asking some question, and Jean Charost saw the 
armed man point toward him, exclaiming, “ He 
must be one of them — he must be one of them.” 
The next moment they both seized his bridle 
together ; but they did not both retain their hold 
very long ; for while he of the halbert demand- 
ed his name and business there, threatening to 
knock his brains out if he did not answer instant- 
ly, the armed man slipped by on the other side 
of the horse, turned round the corner of the 
street, and was lost to sight. 

Jean Charost’s name and business were soon 
explained ; but still the man kept hold of his bri- 
dle. Two or three persons gathered round ; and 
all apparently conceded that a great feat had 
been accomplished in making a prisoner, although 
there was no suspicious circumstance about him, 
except his being mounted on horseback, when 
all the rest were on fcMjt. They continued to dis- 
cuss what was to be done with him, till a large 
body of people came rushing down from the Ho- 
tel Barbette, among whom the young secretary 
recognized one of the squires and two of the lack- 
eys of the Duke of Orleans. To them Jean Cha- 
rost instantly called, saying, “ There is something 
amiss here. Pray explain to these men who I 
am ; for they are stopping me without cause, and 
I can not proceed to join his highness.” 

“ Why did you leave him so suddenly an hour 
ago?” ci’ied the young squire, in a sharp tone. 
“ You came with us from the Hotel d’Orleans, 
and disappeared on the way. You had better 
keep him, my friends, till this bloody deed is in- 
quired into.” 

Then turning to Jean Charost again, he added, 
“ Do you not know that the duke has been foul- 
ly murdered?” 

The intelligence fell upon the young man’s ear 
like thunder. He sat motionless and speechless 
on his horse, while the party from the H6tel Bar- 
bette passed on ; and he only woke from the state 
of stupefaction into which he was cast, to find his 
horse being led by two or three persons through 
the dark and narrow streets of Paris, whither he 
knew not. His first distinct thoughts, however, 
were of the duke rather than himself, and he in- 
quired eagerly of his captors where and how the 
horrible deed had been perpetrated. 


* His exact words. 


AGNES SOREL. 


71 


They were wise people, and exceedingly sapi- 
ent in their own conceit, however. The queen’s 
servant laughed with a sneei-, saying, No, no. 
We wont tell you any thing to prepare you for 
your examination before the pr^vot. He will 
ask you questions, and then you answer him, 
otherwise he will find means to make you. We 
are not here to reply to your interrogatories.” 

The sapient functionary listened to no remon- 
strances, and finding his efforts vain, Jean Cha- 
rost rode on in silence, sometimes tempted, in- 
deed, to draw his sword, which had not yet been 
taken from him, and run the man with the hal- 
bert through the body ; but he resisted the temp- 
tation. 

At length, emerging from a narrow street, they 
came into a little square, on the opposite side of 
which rose a tall and gloomy building, without 
any windows apparent on the outside, except in 
the upper stories of two large towers, flanking a 
low dark archway. All was still and silent in 
the square ; no light shone from the windows of 
that gloomy building; but straight toward the 
great gate they went, and one of the men rang a 
bell which hung against the tower. A loud, fe- 
rocious barking of dogs was immediately heard; 
but in an instant the gates were opened by a 
broad-shouldered, bow-legged man, who looked 
gloomily at the visitors, but said nothing ; and the 
horse of Jean Charost was led in, while the port- 
er drove back four savage dogs (which would 
fain have sprang at the prisoner), and instantly 
closed the gates. The archway in which the par- 
ty now stood extended some thirty feet through 
the heavy walls, and at the other end appeared 
a second gate, exactly like the first; but the port- 
er made no movement to open it, nor asked any 
questions, but suffered the queen’s servant to go 
forward and ring another bell. That gate was 
opened, but not so speedily as the other, and a 
man holding a lantern appeared behind, with an- 
other personage at his side, dressed in a striped 
habit of various colors, which made Jean Chai’ost 
almost believe that they had a buffoon even there. 
From the first words of the qneen’s servant, how- 
ever, he learned that this was the jailer, and his 
face itself, hard, stern, and bitter, was almost an 
announcement of his office. 

Nevertheless, he made some difficulty at first 
in regard to receiving a prisoner from hands un- 
authorized ; but at length he consented to detain 
the young secretary till he could be interrogated 
by the privol. The captors then retired, and the 
jailers made their captive dismount and enter a 
small room near, where sat a man in black, writ- 
ing. His name, his station, his occupation was 
immediately taken down, and then one of those 
harpies called the valets de geole was called, who 
instantly commenced emptying his pockets of all 
they contained, took from him his sword, dagger, 
and belt, and even laid hands upon a small jew- 
eled fermail, or clasp, npon his hood. The young 
man offered no resistance, of course ; but when 
he found himself stripped of money, and every 
thing valuable, he was surprised to hear a de- 
mand made upon him for ten livres. 

“ This is a most extraordinary charge,” he said, 
looking in the face of the jailer, who stood by, 
though it was the valet who made the demand. 

“ Why BO, boy ?” asked the man, gruffly. “ It 
is the jailage due. You said your name was Jean 
Charost, Baron De Brecy. A baron pays the same 
as a count or a countess.” 

But how can I pay any thing, when you have 


taken every thing fi’om me?” asked the young 
secretary. 

“ Oh, you are mistaken,” said the jailer, with 
a rude laugh. “ I see you are a young bird. All 
that has been taken from you, except the fees of 
the jail, will be restored when you go out, if you 
ever do. But you must consent with your own 
tongue to my taking the money for my due, oth- 
erwise we shall put you to sleep in the ditch, 
where you pay half fees, and I take them with- 
out asking.” 

“ Take it, take it,” said Jean Charost, with a 
feeling of horror and dismay that made him feel 
faint and sick. “ Treat me as well as you can, 
and take all that is your right. If more be need- 
ed, you can have it.” 

The jailer nodded his head to the valet, who 
grinned at the prisoner, saying, “We will treat 
you very well, depend upon it. You shall have 
a clean cell, with a bed four feet wide, and only 
two other gentlemen in it, both of them of good 
birth, though one is in for killing a young mark- 
et-woman. He will have his head off in three 
days, and then you will have only one compan- 
ion.” 

“ Can not I be alone ?” asked Jean Charost. 

“ The law is, three prisoners to one bed,” re- 
plied the valet of the jail, “ and we can’t change 
the custom — unless you choose to pay” — he add- 
ed — “ four deniers a night for a single bed, and 
two for the place on which it stands.’' 

“ Willingly, willingly,” cried the young man, 
who now saw that money would do much in a 
jail, as well as elsewhere. “ Can I have a cell 
to myself?” 

“ To be sure. There is plenty of room,” re- 
plied the jailer. “ If you choose to pay the dues 
for two other barons, you can have the space 
they would occupy.” 

Jean Charost consented to every thing that 
was demanded ; the fees were taken by the jail- 
er ; the rest of the money found upon him was 
registered by the man in black, who seemed a 
mere automaton ; and then he was led away by 
the valet of the jail to a small room not very far 
distant. On the way, and for a minute or two 
after his arrival in the cell, the valet continued 
to give him rapid but clear infonnation concern- 
ing the habits and rules of the place. He found 
that, if he attempted to escape, the law would 
hold him guilty of whatever crime he was charged 
with ; that he could neither have writing mate- 
rials, nor communicate with any friend without 
an application to one of the judges at the Chdte- 
let ; that all the law allowed a prisoner was bread 
and water, and, in the end, that every thing could 
be procured by money — except liberty. 

Jean Charost hesitated not then to demand all 
he required, and the valet, on returning to the 
jailer, after having thrice-locked and thnce-bolt- 
ed the door, informed his master that the young 
prisoner was a “ good orange,” which probably 
meant that he was easily sucked. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

Do you recollect visiting the booth of a cutler ? 
In that very booth, the day after the arrest of 
Jean Charost, might be seen the intelligent coun- 
tenance of the deformed boy. Petit Jean, peering 
over the large board on which the wares were 
exposed, and saluting the passers-by with an arch 
smile, to which was generally added an iuvita- 


72 


AGNES SOREL. 


tion to buy some of the articles of his father’s^ 
manufacture. The race gamin is of very an- 
cient date in the city of Paris, where witty and 
mischievous imps are found to have existed in 
great abundance as far as recorded history can 
carry us. It must be owned, too, that a touch 
of the gamin was to be found in poor Petit Jean, 
although his corporeal infirmities prevented him 
from displaying his genius in many of the active 
quips and cranks in which other boys of his own 
age indulged. On the present occasion, when 
he was eager to sell the goods committed to his 
charge, he refrained , as far as possible, from any 
of his sharp jests, so long as there was any chance 
of gaining the good-will of a passing customer, 
and the gamin spirit fumed off in a metaphor; 
but a surly reply, or cold inattention, generally 
drew from him some tingling jest, which might 
have procured him a drubbing had not his in- 
firmities proved a safeguard. 

What do you lack, Messire Behue?” he cried, 
as a good fat currier rolled past the booth. “ Sure, 
with such custom as you have, your knives must 
be all worn out. Here, buy one of these. They 
are so sharp, it would save you a crown a day in 
time, and your customers would not have to wait 
like a crowd at a morality.” 

The good-natured currier paused, and bargain- 
ed for a knife, for flattery will sometimes soften 
even well-tanned hides ; and Petit Jean, content- 
ed with his success, assailed a thin, pale, sancti- 
monious-looking man who came after, in much 
the same manner. 

But this personage scowled at him, saying, 

” No, no, boy. No more knives from your stall. 
The last I bought bent double before two days 
were over.” 

” That’s the fault of your cheese, Peter Guimp,” 
answered the boy, sharply. “ It served Don Jo- 
achim, the canon of St. Laurent, worse than it 
served our knife, for it broke all the teeth out of 
his head. Ask him if it didn’t.” 

“ You lie, you little monster !” said the cheese- 
monger, irritably. ” It was as bad iron as ever 
was sharpened.” 

” Not so hard as your heart, perhaps,” answer- 
ed Petit Jean ; “ but it was a great deal sharper 
than your wit ; and if your cheese had not been 
like a mill-stone, it would have gone through it.” 

The monger of cheeses walked on all the fast- 
er for two or three women having come up, all 
of whom but one, an especial friend of his own, 
were laughing at the saucy boy’s repartee. 

“ Ah, dear Dame Mathurine,” cried Petit Jean, 
addressing the grave lady, “ buy a new bodkin 
for your cloak. It wants one sadly, just to pin 
it up with a jaunty air.” 

Don’t Mathurine me, monkey,” cried the old 
woman, walking on after the cheesemonger ; and 
the boy, winking his eye to the other women, 
exclaimed aloud, '‘Well, you are wise. A new 
bodkin would only tear a hole in the old rag. 
She wore that cloak at her great-grandmother’s 
funeral when she was ten years old, and that is 
sixty years ago ; so it may well fear the touch of 
younger metal.” 

” Well, you rogue, what have you to say to 
me ?” said a young and pretty woman, who had 
listened, much amused. 

” Only that I have nothing good enough for 
your beautiful eyes,” answered the boy, prompt- 
ly ; ” though you have but to look at the things, 
to make them shine as if the sun was beaming 
on them.” 


This hit told well, and the pretty bourgeoise 
very speedily purchased two or three articles 
from the stall. She had just paid her money, 
when Martin Grille, with a scared and haggard 
air, entered the booth, and asked the boy where 
his father was, without any previous salutation. 

“ Why, what is the matter with you, Martin ?” 
asked Petit Jean, affectionately. “You come in 
like a stranger, and don’t say a word to me about 
myself or yourself, and look as wild as the devil 
in a mystery. What is it you want with my fa- 
ther in such a hurry?” 

“I am vexed and frightened. Petit Jean,” re- 
plied poor Martin, with a sigh. “ I am quite at 
my wit’s end, who never was at my wit’s end 
before. Your father may help me ; but you can’t 
help at all, my boy.” 

“ Oh, you don’t know that,” answered the 
other. “ I can help more than people know. 
Why, I have sold more things for my father in 
three hours, since he went up to the Celestins to 
see the body of the Duke of Orleans, than he 
ever sold in three days before.” 

“Ah, the poor duke! the poor duke!” cried 
Martin, with a deep sigh. 

“ Well, well, come sit down,” said Petit Jean. 

“ My father will be in presently, and in the mean 
while. I’ll play you a tune on my new violin, and 
you will see how I can play now.” 

Martin Grille seated himself with an absent 
look, leaned his forehead upon his hands, and 
seemed totally to forget every thing around him 
in the unwonted intensity of his own thoughts. 
But the boy, creeping under the board on which 
the wares were displayed, brought forth an instru- 
ment of no very prepossessing appearance, tried 
its tune with his thumb, as if playing on a guitar, 
and then seating himself at Martin Grille’s knee, • 
put the instrument to his deformed shoulder. 

There be some to whom music comes as by 
inspiration. All other arts are moi'e or less ac- 
quired. But those in whom a fine sensibility to 
hai’mony is implanted by Nature, not unfrequent- 
ly leap over even mechanical difficulties, and 
achieve at once, because they have conceived al- 
ready. Music must have started from the heart 
of Apollo, as wisdom from the head of Jove, with- 
out a childhood. Little had been the instruc- 
tion, few, scanty, and from an incompetent teach- 
er, the lessons which that poor deformed boy had 
received. But now, when the bow in his hand 
touched the strings, it drew from them sounds 
such as a De Beriot or a Rhode might have en- 
vied him the power of educing; and, fixing his 
large, lustrous eyes upon his cousin’s face, he 
seemed to speak in music from his own spirit to 
the spirit of his hearer. Whether he had any de- 
sign, and, if so, what that design was, I can not 
tell; perhaps he did not know himself; but cer- 
tain it is, that the wandering, wavering compo- 
sition that he framed on the moment seemed to 
bear a strange reference to Martin’s feelings. 
First came a harsh crash of the bow across all the 
strings — a broad, bold discord ; then a deep and 
gloomy phrase, entirely among the lower notes 
of the instrument, simple and melodious, but 
without any attempt at harmony ; then, enrich- 
ing itself as it went on, the air deviated into the 
minor, with sounds exquisitely plaintive, till Mar- 
tin Grille almost fancied he could hear the voices 
of mourners, and exclaimed, “ Don’t Jean ! don’t! 

I can not bear it!” 

But still the boy went on, as if triumphing in 
the mastery of music over the mind, and grudu- 


AGNES SOREL. 


73 


ally his instrument gave forth more cheerful 
sounds ; not light, not exactly gay, for every now 
and then a flattened third brought back a touch 
of melancholy to the air, but still one could have 
fancied the ear caught the distant notes of angels 
singing hope and peace to man. 

The effect on Martin Grille was strange. It 
cheered him, but he wept ; and the boy, looking 
earnestly in his face, said, with a strange confi- 
dence, “ Do not tell me I have no power, Martin. 
Mean, deformed, and miserable as I am, I have 
found out that I can rule spirits better than kings, 
and have a happiness within me over which they 
have no sway. You are not the first I have made 
weep. So now tell me what it is you want with 
my father. Perhaps I may help you better than 
he can.” 

“ It was not you made me weep, you foolish 
boy,” said Martin Grille ; “ but it was the thought 
of the bloody death of the poor Duke of Orleans, 
so good a master, and so kind a man ; and then 
I began to think how his terrible fate might have 
expiated, through the goodness of the blessed 
Virgin, all his little sins, and how the saints and 
the angels would welcome him. I almost thought 
I could hear them singing, and it was that made 
me cry. But as to what I want with your father, 
it was in regard to my poor master. Monsieur De 
Brecy, a kind, good young man, and a gallant 
one, too. They have arrested him, and thrown 
him into prison — a set of fools ! — accusing him of 
having compassed the prince’s death, when he 
would have laid down his life for him at any 
time. But all the people at the hotel are against 
him, for he is too good for them, a great deal ; 
and I want somebody powerful to speak in his 
behalf, otherwise they may put him to the tor- 
ture, and cripple him for life, just to make him 
confess a lie, as they did with Paul Laroche, who 
never could walk without two sticks after. Now 
I know, your father is one of the Duke of Bur- 
gundy’s men, and that duke will rule the roast 
now, I suppose.” 

“ Strong spirits seek strong spirits,” said the 
boy, thoughtfully ; “ and perhaps my father might 
do something with the duke. But Martin,” he 
continued, after a short and silent pause, “ do not 
you have any thing to do with the Duke of Bur- 
gundy ! He will not help you. I do not know 
what it is puts such thoughts in my head. But 
the king’s brother had an enemy ; the king’s 
brother is basely murdered ; his enemy still lives 
heartily ; and it is not him I would ask to help a 
man falsely accused. Stay a little. They took 
me, three days ago, to play before the King of Na- 
varre, and I am to go to-day, with my instrument, 
to play before the Queen of Sicily. I think I can 
help you, Martin, if she will but hear me. This 
murder, perhaps, may put it all out, for she was 
fond of the duke, they tell me; but I will send 
her word, through some of her people, when I go, 
that I have got a dirge to play for his highness 
that is dead. She will hear that, perhaps. Only 
tell me all about it.” 

Martin Grille’s siory was somewhat long ; but 
as the reader already knows much that he tolddn 
a desultory sort of way to his young cousin, and 
the rest is not of much importance to this tale, 
we will pass over his account, which lasted some 
twenty minutes, and had not been finished five 
when Caboche himself entered the booth in holi- 
day attire. His first words showed Martin Grille 
the good sense of Petit Jean’s advice, not to 
•peak to his father in favor of Jean Charost, 


I “ Oh ho ! Martin,” cried Caboche, in a grufifand 
almost savage tone, so your gay duke has got 
his brains knocked out at last for his fine doings.” 

“For which of his doings has he been so shame- 
fully murdered?” asked Martin Grille, with as 
much anger in his tone as he dared to evince. 

“ What, don’t you know?” exclaimed Caboche. 
“ Why, it is in every body’s mouth that he has 
been killed by Albert de Chauny, whose wife he 
carried off and made a harlot of. I say, well 
done, Albert de Chauny; and I would have done 
the same if I had been in his place.” 

“Then Monsieur De Brecy is proved inno- 
cent,” said Martin Grille, eagerly. 

“ I know nothing about that,” answered Ca- 
boche. “ He may have been an accomplice, 
you know; but that’s no business of mine. I 
went up to see the duke lie at the Celestins. 
There was a mighty crowd there of men and 
women ; but they all made way for Caboche. 
He makes a handsome corpse, though his head 
is so knocked about ; but he’ll not take any more 
men’s wives away, and now we shall have quiet 
days, I suppose, though I don’t see what good 
quiet does : for whether the town is peaceful or 
not, men don’t buy or sell nowadays half as much 
as they used to do.” 

There was a certain degree of vanity in his 
tone as he uttered the words, “ All made way for 
Caboche,” which was very significant; and his 
description of the appeai'ance of the Duke of Or- 
leans made Martin Grille shudder. He remain- 
ed not long with his rough uncle, however; but, 
after having asked and answered some questions, 
he took advantage of a moment when Caboche 
himself was busy in rearranging his cutlery and 
counting his money, to whisper a few words to 
Petit Jean regarding a meeting in the evening, 
and then parted from him, saying simply, “ Re- 
member !” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

There was a great crowd in the court of the 
Hotel d’ Anjou — lackeys, and pages, and men-at- 
arms ; but the court was a very large one, with 
covered galleries on either hand, and the number 
of retainers present was hardly seen. From time 
to time some great lord of the court arrived, and 
proceeded at once into the palace, leaving his 
followers to swell some of the little groups into 
which the whole body of the people assembled 
had arranged themselves. To one particular point 
the eyes of all present were most frequently di- 
rected, and it was only when one of the princes 
of the blood royal, the Dukes of Berri or Bourbon, 
or the King of Navarre arrived, that the mere 
spectators of the scene could divert their eyes 
from a spot where a young and handsome lad, 
who had not yet seen twenty years, stood in 
the midst of a group of the privdt’s guard with 
fetters on his limbs. 

By half past three o’clock, several of the princes 
and the Royal Council had entered the building, 
and were conducted at once to a large hall on 
the ground floor, where every thing was dark and 
sombre as the occasion of the meeting. The ceil- 
ing was much lower than might have been ex- 
pected in a chamber of such great size ; but the 
decorations which it displayed were rich and 
costly, showing the rose, an ancient emblem of 
•the house of Anjou, in red, and green, and gold, 


AGNES SOREL. 


■74 

at the corner of every panel; for the ceiling, like 
the rest of the room, was covered with dark oak. 
Tlie walls were richly embellished; but the want 
of light hid the greater part of the delicate carv- 
ing, and scarcely allowed a secretary, seated at 
the table, to see the letters on the paper on which 
he was writing. 

Most of the members of the council had ar- 
rived; the Duke of Berri himself was present; 
but two very important personages had not yet 
appeared, namely, the Duke of Anjou (titular 
king of Sicily), and the Duke of Burgundy. The 
Duke of Berri, nevertheless, gave prders that the 
business of the day should proceed, while he sent 
a lackey to summon the Duke of Anjou ; and 
very shortly after, that prince entered the room, 
inquiring, as he advanced to the table, if the 
prlvdt had yet arrived. 

“ No, fair cousin,” replied the Duke of Bern; 

‘‘ but we may as well get over the preliminaries. 
The facts attending the finding of the body must 
be read, in the first place.” 

“ I have read the whole of the froces verbal,'' 
replied the King of Sicily. “ Go on — go on, I will 
be back immediately.” 

The Duke of Berri seemed somewhat dis- 
pleased to see his cousin quit the hall again ; but 
the investigation proceeded. All the facts re- 
garding the assassination of the Duke of Orleans 
which had been collected were read by the sec- 
retary from the papers before him ;« and when he 
had done, he added, “I find, my lords, that a 
young gentleman, the secretary of the late duke, 
who waa not with him at the Hotel Barbette, , 
was arrested by one of her majesty’s servants at 
th^i^ene of the murder, in very suspicious cir- 
cumstances, shortly after the crime was perpe- 
trated. Is it your pleasure that he be brought 
before you?” 

Assuredly,” replied the Duke of Berri. “ I 
have seen the young gentleman, and judged 
well of him. I can not think he had any share 
in this foul deed. Are there any of my poor 
nephew’s household here who can testify con- 
cerning him ?” 

“Several, your highness,” answered the sec- 
retary. “ They are in the ante-room.” 

“ Let them also be called in,” said the Duke 
of Berri; and in a minute or two, Jean Charost, 
heavily ironed, was brought to the end of the 
table, and a number of the Duke of Orleans’s offi- 
cers, the jester, and the chaplaijj^appeared be- 
hind them. 

The Duk6 of Berri gazed at the young man 
sternly; but with Jean Charost, the first feelings 
of grief, horror, and alarm had now given way 
to a sense of indignation at the suspicions enter- 
tained against him, and he returned the duke’s 
glance firmly and unshrinkingly, with a look of 
manly confidence which sat well even upon his 
youthful features. 

“ Well, young gentleman,” said the Duke of 
Berri, at length, “ what have you to say for your- 
self?” 

“ In what respect, my lord?” asked Jean Cha- 
rost, still keeping his eyes upon the duke; for 
the stare of all around was painful to him. 

“ In answer to the charge brought against you,” 
answered the Duke of Berri. 

“ I know of no charge, your highness,” answer- 
ed Jean Charost. “ I only know that while pro- 
ceeding, according to the orders of my late be- 
loved lord, to rejoin him at the Hotel Barbette, 
I was seized by some men at one corner of the 


Rue Barbette, just as I was pausing to look at a 
house in flames, and at a crowd which I saw 
further down the street; that then, without al- 
most any explanation, I was hurried to prison, 
and that this morning I have been brought hither, 
with these fetters on my limbs, which do not be- 
come an innocent French gentleman.” 

“ It is right you should hear the charge,” an- 
swered the duke. “Is the man who first ap- 
prehended him here present ?” 

The tall, stout lackey of the queen, who had 
been the first to seize the joun" secretary’s bri- 
dle, now bustled forward, mil of his own import- 
ance, and related, hot altogether without embel- 
lishment, his doings of the preceding night. He 
told how, on hearing from the flying servants of 
the Duke' of Orleans that their lord had been at- 
tacked by armed men in the street, he had 
snatched up a halbert and run to his assistance; 
how he arrived too late, and then addressed him- 
self to apprehend the murderers. He said that 
Jean Charost was not riding in any direction, but 
sitting on his horse quite still, as if he had been 
watching from a distance the deed just done: 
and that a gentleman of good repute, who had 
hastened, like himself, to give assistance, had 
ointed out the young secretary as one of the 
and of assassins, and even aided to apprehend 
him. He added various particulars of no great 
importance in regard to Jean Charost’s manner 
and words, with the view of making out a case 
of strong suspicion against him. 

“ You hear the charge,” said the Duke of 
Berri, when the man had ended ; “ what have 
you to say ?” 

“ I might well answer nothing, your highness,” 
replied Jean Charost ; “ for, so far as I can see, 
there is no charge against me, except that I 
checked my horse for an instant to look at a crowd 
and a house in flames. Nevertheless, if you will 
permit me, 1 will ask this man a question or two, 
as it may tend to bring some parts of this dark af- 
fair to light.” 

‘^sk what you please,” answered the duke; 
and Jean Charost turned to the servant, and de- 
manded, it must be confessed, in a sharp tone, 
“ Was the man who pointed me out to you armed 
or unarmed ?” 

“ Completely armed, except the head,” replied 
the lackey, looking a little confused, 

“ What had he in his hand?” demanded Jean 
Charost. 

“ A mace, I think,” answered the man ; “an 
iron mace,” 

“ Did he tell you how he came completely 
armed in the streets of Paris at that hour of the 
night?” asked Jean Charost. 

“ He said he came forth at the cries,” answered 
the servant. 

“ How long may it take to arm a man com 
pletely, except the head ?” asked the young gen- 
tleman. 

“I don’t know,” answered the servant; “I 
don’t bear arms.” 

“ I do,” answered Jean Charost ; “ and so do 
these noble lords ; nor is it probable that a man 
could shuffle on his armor in time to be there on 
the spot so soon, unless he were well armed be- 
fore. Now tell me, what was this man’s name ?” 

The man hesitated ; but the Duke of Berri 
thundered from the head of the table, “ Answer 
at once, sir. You have said he was a gentleman 
of good repute ; you must therefore know him 
What was his name?” 


AGNES SOREL. 


75 


“ William of Courthose,” answered the man ; 
“ the brother of the king’s valet de chambre.” 

“Where is he?” asked the Duke of Berri, so 
sternly, that the man became more and more 
alarmed, judging that his stupid activity might 
not prove so honorable to himself as he had ex- 
pected. 

“ I do not know rightly, your highness,” he 
replied. “ His brother told me to-day he had 
gone to Artois.” 

There was a silence all through the room at 
this announcement. Jean Charost asked no more 
questions. Several of the council looked mean- 
ingly in each other’s faces, and the Duke of 
Berri gazed thoughtfully down at the table. 

The chaplain of the late Duke of Orleans, how- 
ever, and Seigneur Andre, his fool, moved round 
and got behind the prince’s chair. 

The former bent his head, and said a few 
words in a low tone; and the duke instantly 
looked up, saying, “ It seems. Monsieur De Brecy, 
that there was a quarrel between yourself and 
my unhappy nephew. You were heard speak- 
ing loud and angrily in his apartments ; you left 
him half way to the Hotel Barbette. Explain 
all this !” 

“ There was no quarrel, my lord,” replied Jean 
Charost ; “ there could be no quarrel between an 
humble man like myself and a prince of the blood 
royal. His highness reproved me for something 
I had done amiss, and his voice was certainly 
loud when he did so. He pardoned me, how- 
ever, on my apology, took me with him on his 
way to the Hotel Barbette, sent me to deliver a 
letter and receive an answer, and commanded 
me to rejoin him at her majesty’s house, which I 
was on the way to do when I was arrested.” 

“ What was the cause of his reproving you ?” 
asked the Duke of Berri ; “ to whom did he send 
you with a letter, and where did you pass the 
time from the moment you left him to the mo- 
ment of your arrest ? You had better. Monsieur 
De Brecy, give a full account of your whole con- 
duct from the time of your arrival in Paris till 
the time of your apprehension.” 

Jean Charost looked down thoughtfully, and 
his countenance changed. To betray the secrets 
of the dead, to plant a fresh thorn in the heart 
of the Duchess of Orleans, already tom, as it 
must be, to explain how and why he had hesita- 
ted to obey his lord’s commands, was what he 
would fain escape from at almost any risk ; and 
his confidence in his own innocence made him 
believe that his refusal could do him no material 
damage. 

“ It will be better for yourself, sir, to be frank 
and candid,” said the Duke of Berri; “a few 
words may clear you of all suspicion.” 

“ I doubt it not, your highness,” replied Jean 
Charost; “for as yet I see no cause for any. 
Were I myself alone concerned, I would willing- 
ly and at once state every act of my own and 
every word I uttered ; but, my lord, m so doing, 
I should be obliged to give also the acts and 
words of my noble master. They were spoken 
to me in confidence, as between a frank and 
generous prince and his secretary. He is dead ; 
but that absolves me not from the faithful dis- 
charge of my duty toward him. What he con- 
fided to me— whither he sent me — nay, even 
more, the very cause of his reproving me, which 
involves some part of his own private affairs, I 
will never disclose, ^e the consequence what it 
may; and I do trust that noble princes and 


honorable gentlemen will not require an humble 
secretary, as I am, to betray the secrets of his 
lord.” 

“ You are bound, sir, by the law, to answer 
truly any questions that the king’s council may 
demand of you,” said the King of Navarre, stern- 
ly ; “ if not, we can compel you.” 

“ I think not, my lord,” replied Jean Charost; 
“ I know of no means which can compel an hon- 
orable man to violate a sacred duty.” 

“ Ha, ha!” shouted Seigneur Andre ; “he does 
not know of certain bird-cages we hhve in France 
to make unwilling warblers sing. Methinks one 
screw of the rack would Soon make the pretty 
creature open its bill.” 

“ I think so too,” said the King of Navarre, 
setting his teeth, and not at all well pleased with 
Jean Charost’s reply. “ We give you one more 
chance, sir; will you, ffr will you not, answer the 
Duke of Berri’s questions ? If not, we must try 
the extent of your obstinacy.” 

As he spoke he beckoned up to him the prS- 
v6t of Paris, who had entered the hall a few 
minutes before, and spoke to him something in a 
whisper; to which the other replied, “ Oh yes, 
sir, in the other chamber ; the screw will do ; it 
has often more power than the rack.” 

In the mean time, a struggle had been going 
on in the breast of Jean Charost. 

It is often very dangerous to commit one’s 
self by words to a certain course of action. So 
long as we keep a debate with ourselves within 
the secret council-chamber of our own bosom, 
we feel no hesitation in retracting an ill-formed 
opinion or a rash resolution ; but when we 
have called our fellow-creatures to witness our 
thoughts or our determinations, the great pri- 
meval sin of pride puts a barrier in our way, and 
often prevents us going back, even when we could 
do so with honor. 

Jean Charost was as faulty as the rest of our 
race, and perhaps it would be too much to say 
that pride had no share in strengthening his res- 
olution ; but, after a short pause, he replied, “ My 
lord, the Duke of Berri, take it not ill of me, I 
beg your highness, that I say any questions sim- 
ply regarding myself I will answer truly and at 
once ; but none in any way affecting the private 
affairs of my late royal master will I answer at 
all.” 

“We can not suffer our authority to be set at 
naught,” said the Duke of Berri, gravely; and 
the King of Navarre, turning with a heavy frown 
to the pr6v6t, exclaimed, “ Remove him. Mon- 
sieur Tignonville, and make him answer.” 

Jean Charost turned very pale, but he said 
nothing ; and two of the privot's men laid their 
hands upon him, and drew him from the end of 
the table. 

At the same moment, however, another young 
man started forward, with his face all in a glow, 
exclaiming, “ Oh, my lords, my lords I for pity’s 
sake, for your own honor’s sake, forbear ! He 
is as noble and as faithful a lad as ever lived — 
well-beloved of the prince whom we all mourn. 
Think you that he, who will suffer torture rather 
than betray his lord’s secrets, would conspire his 
death?” 

“ It may be his own secrets ho will not re- 
veal,” said the Duke of Berri. 

“Meddle not with what does not concern you,” 
cried the King of Navarre, sternly. 

But Jean Charost turned his head as they were 
taking him from the room, and exclaimed, 


76 


AGNES SOREL. 


" Thajik yon, De Royans — thank you ! That is 
noble and just/’ 

He was scarcely removed when the Ekike of 
Burgundy entered by the great entrance, and the 
King of Sicily by a small door behind the Duke 
of Berri,^ The former was alone, but the latter 
was followed by several of the officers of his 
' household, and in the midst of them appeared a 
young girl, leaning on the arm of an elder wom- 
an dressed as a superior servant. 

“ I heard that Monsieur De Brecy was under 
examination,” said Louis of Anjou, looking round, 
“ accused of being accessory to the murder. Is 
he not here?” 

“ He has retired with a friend,” said Seigneur 
Andre, who thought it his privilege to intermed- 
dle with all conversation. 

'' The truth is, fair cousin,” answered the King 
of Navarre, “ we have found him a very obstinate 
personage to deal with, setting at naught the au- 
thority of the council, and refusing to answer the 
questions propounded to him. We have there- 
fore been compelled to employ means which 
usually make recusants answer.” 

“ Good God ! I hope not,” exclaimed the Duke 
of Anjou. “ Here is a young lady who can test- 
ify something in his favor.” 

He turned as he spoke toward the young girl 
who had followed him into the hall, and who has 
more than once appeared upon the scene already. 
She was deadly pale, but those energies which 
afterward saved France failed her not now. She 
loosed her hold of the old servant’s arm, on 
which she had been leaning, took a step forward, 
and, with her hands clasped, exclaimed, “ In 
God’s name, mighty princes, forbear! Send a 
messenger, if you would save your own peace, 
and countermand your terrible order. I know 
not why you have doomed an innocent man to 
torture, but right sure I am that somehow he has 
brought such an infliction on his head by honesty, 
and not by crime ; by keeping his faith, not by 
breaking it.” 

” They are made for each other,” said the 
King of Navarre, coldly. “ They both speak in 
the same tone. Who is she, cousin of Sicily ?” 

Mademoiselle De St. Geran^— Agnes Sorel,” 
answered the Duke of Anjou, in a low tone. 
“ One t»f the maids of honor to my wife.” 

But Agnes took no notice of their half-heard 
colloquy, and, turning at once with quick decis- 
ion and infinite grace toward the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, who sat with his head leaning on his 
hand, and his eyes fixed upon the table, she ex- 
claimed, “ My lord the Duke of Burgundy, I be- 
seech you to interfere. You know this young 
man — you know he is faithful and true — you 
know he refused to betray the secret of his lord, 
even at your command, and dared your utmost 
anger. You know he is not guilty.” 

“ I do,” said the Duke of Burgundy, rising, 
and speaking in a hoarse, hollow tone. “ My 
lords, he is not guilty — I am sure. Suspend your 
order, I beseech you. Send off to the Ch^telet, 
and let him — ” 

A deep groan, which seemed almost a sup- 
ressed cry, appeared to proceed from a door 
alf way down the haU, and swell through the 
room, like the note of an organ. 

He is not far off, as you may hear,” said the 
King of Navarre, with an indifferent manner. 

“ Tell them to stop, if you please, fair cousin.” 

The Duke of Burgundy had waited to ask no 
permission, but was already striding toward the 


door. He threw it sharply open, and entered a 
small room having no exit, except through the 
hall ; but he paused, without speaking, for a mo- 
ment, although before his eyes lay poor Jean 
Charost strapped down upon a sort of iron bed- 
stead, and one of the privdVs men stood actually 
turning a wheel at the head, which elongated 
the whole frame, and threatened to tear the un- 
fortunate sufferer to pieces. For an instant, the 
duke continued to gaze in silence, as if desirous 
of seeing how much the unhappy young man 
could bear. But Jean Charost uttered not a 
word. That one groan of agony had burst from 
him on first feeling the peine forte et dure. But 
now his resolution seemed to have triumphed 
over hutnan weakness, and, with his teeth shut 
and his eyes closed, he lay and suffered without 
a cry. 

“ Hold !” exclaimed the duke, at length. 
“ Hold, Messire Prevot. Unbind the young man. 
He is not guilty !” 

The duke then slowly moved toward the door, 
and closed it sharply, while Jean Charost was re- 
moved from his terrible couch, and a little water 
given him to drink. He sat up, and leaned his 
head upon his hand, with his eyes still closed, and 
not even seeming to see who had come to deliver 
him. The privdt's men approached, and attempt- 
ed, somewhat rudely, to place upon him his coat 
and vest, which had been taken off to apply the 
torture. 

“ Patience — patience, for a moment!” he said. 

In the mean while, the Duke of Burgundy had 
approached close to him, and stood gazing at him 
with his arms crossed on his broad chest. “ Can 
you speak, young man ?” he said, at length. 

Jean Charost inclined his head a little fur- 
ther. 

” What was it you refused to tell the council V 
asked the duke. 

” Where the Duke of Orleans sent me last 
night,” answered the young man, faintly. 

“ Faithful and true, indeed !” said the Duke 
of Burgundy ; and then, laying his broad hand 
upon the youth’s aching shoulder, he said, in a 
low tone, “ If you seek new service, De Brecy, 
join me at Mons in a week. I will raise you to 
high honor ; and remember — this you have suf- 
fered was not my doing. I came to deliver you. 
Now bring him in, pr^vdt, as soon as he can 
bear it.” 

When the duke returned to the hall, he found 
Agues Sorel standing by the side of the Duke of 
Berri, although a chair had been placed for her 
by one of the gentlemen near ; for in those days 
there was the brilliant stamp of chivalrous court- 
esy on all French gentlemen, in external things 
at least, though since blotted out by the blood 
of Lamballe and Marie Antoinette. 

“Your testimony as to his general chai-acter 
and uprightness, my fair young lady,” said the 
Duke of Berri, in a kindly tone, “will have the 
weight that it deserves with the council, but we 
must have something more definite here. We 
find that he was absent more than an hour from 
the duke’s suite, when my poor nephew had 
ordered him to rejoin him immediately, and that 
this fearful assassination was committed during 
that period. He refuses to answer as to where 
he was, or what he was doing during that time. 
We will put the question to him again,” he con- 
tinued, looking toward the door at which Jean 
Charost now appeared, su^orted by two of the 
privdt’s men, and followed by that officer him- 


AGNES SOREL. 


77 


self. “ Has he made any answer, Monsieur De 
Tignonville ?” 

“ Not a word, your highness,” replied the 
frivol. 

“ Noble lad !” said Agnes Sorel, in a low voice, 
as if to herself; and then continued, raising her 
tone, “ My lord the duke, I will tell you where 
he was, and what he was doing.” 

The Duke of Burgundy started, and looked sud- 
denly up; but Agnes went on. “ Although there 
be some men to whose characters certain acts are 
so repugnant that to suppose them guilty of them 
would be to suppose an impossibility, and though 
I and the mighty prince there opposite can bear 
witness that such is the case even in this instance, 
yet, lest he should bring himself into danger by 
his faithfulness, I will tell you what he will not 
speak, for I am bound by no duty to refrain. He 
was at the house of Madame De Giac, sent thith- 
er with a note by the Duke of Orleans. She told 
me so herself this morning, and lamented that a 
foolish trick she caused her servants to play him 
— merely to see how he, in his inexperience, 
would escape from a difficulty — had prevented 
him from rejoining his princely master, though, 
as she justly said, her idle jest had most likely 
saved the young man’s life.” 

“ Skillfully turned,” muttered the Duke of 
Burgundy between his teeth, and he looked up 
with a relieved expression of countenance. 

“ If my lords doubt me,” continued the young 
girl, “ let them send for Madame De Giac her- : 
self.” _ I 

Nay, nay, we doubt you not,” said the 
Duke of Burgundy ; “ and so sure am I of the 
poor lad’s innocence — although he offended me 
somewhat atPithiviers — that I propose he should 
be instantly liberated, and allowed to retire.” 

“ Open the door, but first clip the bird’s wings,” 
said Seigneur Andr6. “ He won’t fly far,. I fan- 
cy, after the trimming he has had.” 

The proposal of the Duke of Burgundy, how- 
ever, was at once acceded to; and Louis of An- 
jou, whose heart was a kindly one, notwith- 
standing some failings, leaned across the table 
toward Agnes Sorel, saying, “ Take him with 
you, pretty maid, and try what you and the rest ■ 
can do to comfort him till I come.” 

Agnes frankly held out her hand to Jean Cha- | 
rost, saying, “ Come, Monsieur De Brecy, you | 
need rest and refreshment. Come ; you shall : 
have the sweetest music you have ever heard to , 
cheer you, and may have to thank the musician 
too.” 

With feeble and wavering steps, the young 
gentleman followed her from the room ; and the 
moment the door was closed behind them, the 
King of Sicily turned to the privdt, saying, 

“ This young man is clearly innocent, Monsieur 
De Tignonville. Do you not think so ?” 

“ 1 have never thought otherwise, my lord,” 
replied the privdt. 

“ Well, then, sir,” said the Duke of Berri, 
'‘you have doubtless used all diligence, as we 
commanded this morning, to trace out those who 
have committed so horrible a crime as the assas- 
sination of the king’s own brother.” 

“All diligence have I used, noble lords and 
migUy princes,” said De Tignonville, advancing 
to the edge of the table, and speaking in a pecul- 
iarly stern and resolute tone of voice ; “ but I 
hav’e yet apprehended none of the assassins or 
their accomplices. Nevertheless, such informa- 
tion have I received as leads me to feel sure that 


I shall be able to place them before you ere 
many hours are over, if you will give me the au- 
thority of the council to enter and examine the 
houses of all the servants of the king and those 
of the princes — even of the blood royal ; which, 
as you know, is beyond my power without your 
especial sanction.” 

“ Most assuredly,” replied the King of Sicily. 
“ Begin with mine, if you please. Search it from 
top to bottom. There are none of us here who 
would stand upon a privilege that might coilceal 
the murderer of Louis of Orleans.” 

“ There can be no objection,” said the Duke 
of Berri. “ Search mine, w’hen you please, Mon- 
sieur le Prevot.” 

“ And mine,” said the Duke of Bourbon. 

“And mine — and mine,” said several of the 
lords of the council. 

The Duke of Burgundy said nothing ; but sat 
at the table, with his face pale, and his somewhat 
harsh features sharpened, though motionless. At 
length he started up from the table, and exclaim- 
ed, in a sharp, quick tone, “ Come hither, Sicily 
— come hither, my fair uncle of Berri. I w’^ould 
speak a word with you;” and he strode toward 
the great door, followed by the two princes whom 
he had selected. 

Between the great door and that of an outer 
hall was a small vestibule, with a narrow stair- 
case on one side, on the lower steps of which 
some attendants were sitting, when the duke ap- 
peared suddenly among them. 

“Avoid!” he said, in a tone so loud and harsh 
as to scatter them at once like a flock of frighten- 
ed sheep. He then closed both the doors, look- 
ed up the stair-case, and drew the Duke of Berri 
toward him, whispering something in his ear in 
a low tone. 

The venerable prince started back, and gazed 
at him with a look of horror. “ It was a sugges- 
tion of the great enemy,” said Burgundy, “ and 
I yielded.” 

“ What does he say — what does he say ?” ex- 
claimed the King of Sicily. 

“ That he — he ordered the assassination,” an- 
swered the Duke of Berri, in a sad and solemn 
tone. “ I have lost two nephews in one night 

The Duke of Anjou drew back with no less 
horror in his face than that which had mai-ked 
the countenance of the Duke of Bern ; but he 
gave more vehement way to the feeling of repro- 
bation which possessed him, expressing plainly 
his grief and indignation. He was brief, how- 
ever, and soon laid his hand upon the lock to 
open the door of the council-chamber again. 

“ Stay, stay, Louis,” said the Duke of Berri. 
“ Let us say nothing of this terrible truth till w© 
have well considered what is to be done.” 

“Done!” repeated' the Duke of Burgundy, 
gazing at them both with a look of stern sur- 
prise, as if he had fully expected that his acknowl- 
edgment of the deed was to make it pass unin- 
vestigated and unpunished ; and passing between 
his two relations, he too approached the door as 
if to go in. 

But the Duke of Berri barred the way. “ Go 
not into the council, fair nephew,” he said. “ It 
would not please me, nor any other person there, 
to have you among us now.” 

The Duke of Burgundy gave him one glance, 
but answered nothing ; and, passing through the 
opposite door and the outer hall, mounted his 
horse and rode away, followed by his train. 

“ Let us break up the council, Louis,” said the 


78 


AGNES SOREL. 


Duke of Ben*i, “ and summon it for to-morrow i 
morning. I will hie me home, and give the next 
hours to silent thought and prayer. You do the 
same ; and let us meet to-morrow before the 
council reassembles." 

“ My thoughts are all confused," said the King 
of Sicily. Is it a dream, noble kinsman — a 
bloody and terrible dream ? Well, go you in. I 
dare not go with you. I should discover all. 
Say I am sick — God knows it is true — sick, very 
sick at heart." 

Thus saying, he turned toward the stair-case, 
and while the Duke of Berri returned to those he 
had left, and broke up the council abruptly, the 
other prince proceeded slowly and gloomily to- 
ward his wife’s apartments. When he reached 
the top of the stairs, however, and opened the 
door at which they terminated, a strain of the 
most exquisite music met his ear, sweet, slow, 
and plaintive, but yet not altogether melancholy. 

Oh, how inharmonious can music sometimes 
be to the spirits even of those who love it best ! 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

There are moments in life when even kind- 
ness and tenderness have no balm — when all 
streams are bitter because the bitterness is in us 
— when the heart is hardened to the nether mill- 
stone by the Gorgon look of despair — when hap- 
piness is so utterly lost that unhappiness has no 
degrees. There are such moments ; but, thank 
God, they are few. 

Heavy in heart and spirit, indignant at the 
treatment he had received, with his mind full of 
grief and horror at the dreadful death of a prince 
he had well loved, and with a body weary and 
broken with the torture he had undergone, still 
Jean Charost found comfort and relief in the 
soothing tenderness of Agnes Sorel, and of two 
or three girls somewhat older than herself, who 
lavished kindness and attention upon him as 
soon as they learned what had just befallen him. 
Some wine was brought, and fair hands gave it 
to him. and all that woman’s pity could do was 
done. But Agnes had that morning learned the 
power of music, and, running away into an ante- 
room, she exclaimed, “ Where is our sweet mu- 
sician? Here, boy — here ! Bring your instru- 
ment, and try and comfort him for whom you 
pteaded so hard just now. He needs it much." 

Petit Jean rose instantly, paused for one mo- 
ment to screw up a little one of the strings of his 
violin, and then followed into the inner room, 
giving a timid glance around over the fair young 
faces which were gathered about Jean Charost. 
But his eyes soon settled upon the sufferer with 
an inquiring look, which put the question as 
plainly as in words, “ What is the matter with 
him ?’’ 

“ They have put him to the torture," whisper- 
ed Agnes ; and the boy, after a moment’s pause, 
raised his instrument to his shoulder and drew 
from it those sweet tones which the Duke of 
Anjou had heard. A short time before, he had 
played a dirge for the Duke of Orleans in the 
presence of the Queen of Sicily — I can hardly 
call it one of his own compositions, but rather 
one of his inspirations. It had been deep, solemn, 
almost terrible; but now the music was very 
different, sweet, plaintive, and yet with a min- 
gling of cheerfulness every now and then, as if it 


would fain have been gay, but that something 
like memory oppressed the melody. It was like 
a spring day in the country — a day of early 
spring — when winter is still near at hand, though 
summer lies on before. 

To enjoy fine and elaboi'ate music aright, we 
require some learning, a disciplined and practiced 
ear; but those, I believe, who have heard the 
least music are more deeply affected by simple 
melodies. The sensations which Jean Charost 
experienced are hardly to be described, and 
when the boy ceased, he held out his hand to 
him, saying, “ Thank you, thank you, my young 
friend. You have done me more good than ever 
did leech to sick man." 

You have more to thank him for than that," 
said Agnes, with a smile, which brought out upon 
her face, not then peculiarly handsome, that la- 
tent, all-captivating beauty which was afterward 
her peril and her power. “ Had it not been for 
him, neither the Queen of Sicily nor I would ever 
have heard of your danger." 

“ How can that be ?’’ asked Jean Charost. “ I 
do not know him — I never saw him.” 

“Nor I you," replied the boy; “but ’tis the 
story of the lion and the mouse that my grand- 
mother told me. You have a lackey called Mar- 
tin Grille. He is my cousin. You have been 
kind to him ; he has been kind to me ; and so 
the whole has gone in a round. He gave me the 
first crown he could spare; that helped me to 
buy this thing that speaks so sweetly when I tell 
'it. It said to that young lady, and to the queen, 
to have pity; and they had pity on you ; and so 
that went in a round too. But I must go now, 
for I have to meet Martin on the parvis, and I 
shall be too late." 

“Stay a moment," said Agnes. “You have 
had no reward." 

“ Oh yes, I have," replied the boy. “ Reward 
enough in setting him free.’’ 

“ Nay, that was but justice," she answered. 
“ Stay but a moment, and I will tell the queen 
you are going." 

One of the other girls accompanied her, and 
two more dropped away before she returned. 
Anothei’, who was elder, remained talking with 
Petit Jean, and asking him many questions as to 
how he had acquired such skill in music. The 
boy said, God sent it ; that from his infancy he 
had always played upon any instrument he could 
get ; that one of the chanters of Notre Dame had 
taught him a little, and a blind man, who played 
on the cornemuse, had given him some ' instruc- 
tion. That was all that he could tell; but yet, 
though he showed no learning, he spoke of his 
beautiful art with a wild confidence and enthu- 
siasm that the young denizen of an artificial court 
, could not at all comprehend. At length Agnes 
returned alone, bearing a small silk purse in her 
hand, which she gave to the boy, saying, “ The 
queen thanks you, ]|Jetit Jean ; and bids you come 
to her again on Sunday night. To-day she can 
hear nothing that is not sad; but she would fain 
hear some of your gayer music." 

“ Tell Martin that I will be home soon," said 
Jean Charost. “ Indeed, I see not why I should 
not go with you now. Methinks I could walk 
to the hotel." 

“Nay," said Agnes, kindly; “you shall not 
go yet. The king has given me charge of you, 
and I will be obeyed. It will be better that he 
tell your servant to come hither, and inquire 
for Madame De Busserole, our superintendent. 


\GNES SOREL. 


79 


Then, when you have somebody with you, you 
can go in more safety. Tell him so, Petit Jean. 
I must let Madame De Busserole know, howev- 
er, lest the young man be sent away.” 

“ I will tell her,” said the other maid of honor. 

You stay with your friend, Agnes ; for I have 
got that rose in my embroidery to finish. Fare- 
well, Monsieur De Brecy. If I were a king, I 
would hang all the torturers and bum all the 
racks, with the man who first invented them in 
the middle of them.” And she tripped gayly 
out of the room. 

The boy took his departure at the same time ; 
and Jean Charost and Agnes were left alone to- 
gether, or nearly so — for various people came 
and went — during well-nigh an hour. The light 
soon began to fade, and a considerable portion 
of their interview passed in twilight; but their 
conversation was not such as to require any help 
from the looks. It was very calm and quiet. 
Vain were it, indeed, to say that they did not 
take much interest in each other. But both 
were very young, and there are different ways 
of being young. Some are young in years — some 
in mind — some in heart. Agnes and Jean Cha- 
rost were both older than their years in mind, 
but perhaps younger than their years in heart; 
and nothing even like a dream of love came over 
the thoughts of either. 

They talked much of the late Duke of Orleans, 
and Jean Charost told her a good deal of the 
duchess. They talked, too, of Madame De Giac ; 
and Agnes related to him all the particulars of 
that lady’s visit to her in the morning. 

“ Why she came, I really do not know,” said 
the young girl. “ Although she is a distant cous- 
in of my late father’s, there was never any great 
love between us, and we parted with no great 
tenderness two days after I saw you at Pithiviers. 
Her principal object seemed to be to tell me of 
your having visited her yesterday night, and to 
mention the foolish trick she played upon you. 
That she seemed very eager to explain — I know 
not why.” 

Jean Charost mused somewhat gloomily. 
There were suspicions in his breast he did not 
like to mention ; and the conduct and demeanor 
of Madame De Giac toward himself were not 
what he could tell to her beside him. 

“ I love not that Madame De Giac,” he said, 
at length. 

I never loved her,” answered Agnes. “ I 
can remember her before her marriage, and I 
loved her not then ; but still less do I esteem her. 
now, after having been more than ten days in 
her company. It is strange. Monsieur De Brecy, 
is it not, what it can be that gives children a sort 
of feelin'g of people’s characters, even before they 
have any real knowledge of them. She was al- 
ways very kind to me, even as a child; but I 
thought of her then just as I think of her now, 
though perhaps I ought to think worse ; for since 
then she has said many things to me which I wish 
I had never heard.” 

How so !” asked Jean Charost, eagerly. 

What has she said ?” 

“ Oh, much that I can not tell — that I forget,” 
answered Agnes, with the color mounting in her 
cheek. “ But her general conversation, with me 
at least, does not please me. She speaks of right 
and wrong, honesty and dishonesty, as if there 
were no distinctions between them but those 
made by priests and lawyers. Every thing, to 
her mind, depends upon what is most advanta- 


geous in the end ; and that is the most advanta- 
geous, in her mind, which gives the most pleas- 
ure.” 

“ She may be right,” answered Jean Charost, 
“ if she takes the next world into account as well 
as this. But still I think her doctrines danger- 
ous ones, and would not have any one to whom 
I wish well listen to them.” 

“I never. do,” answered Agnes; “but she 
laughs at me when I tell her I would rather not 
hear; and tells me that all these things, and in- 
deed the whole world, will appear to me as dif- 
ferently ten years hence as the world now does 
compared with what it seemed to me as an in- 
fant. I do not think it ; do you?” 

“ I can not tell,” replied Jean Charost, grave- 
ly ; “ but I hope not ; for I believe it would be 
better for us all could we always see the world 
with the eyes of childhood. True, it has changed 
much to my own view within the last few months; 
but it has changed sadly, and I wish I could look 
upon it as I did before. That can not be, ^how- 
ever; and I suppose we are all — though men 
more than women — destined to see these chan- 
ges, and to pass through them.” 

“Men can bear them better than women,” 
answered Agnes. “ A storm that breaks a flower 
or kills a butterfly, does not bend an oak or scare 
an eagle. Well, w.e must endure whatever be 
our lot; but I often think. Monsieur De Brecy, 
that, had the choice been mine, I would rather 
have been a peasant girl — not a serf, but a free 
farmer’s daughter — with a tall, white cap, and a 
milk-pail on my arm, than a lady of the court, 
with all these gauds and jewels about me. If 
my poor mother had lived, I should never have 
been here.” 

Thus they rambled on for some time, till at 
length it was announced that Martin Grille was 
in waiting; and Jean Charost took his leave of 
his fair companion, pouring forth upon her at the 
last moment his thanks for all she had done to 
serve and save him. He was still stiff and weak, 
feeling as if every bone in his body had been 
crushed, and every muscle riven; but he con- 
trived to reach the Hotel d’Orleans, with the as- 
sistance of Martin Grille. 

It was now quite dark ; but in the vestibule, 
which has been often mentioned, a number of the 
unfortunate duke’s servants and retainers were 
assembled, among whom Jean Charost perceived 
at once, by the dim light of the lanterns, the 
faces of the chaplain and Seigneur Andre. As 
soon as the latter saw him leaning feebly on his 
servant, he cried out, with an exulting laugh, 
“Ah, here comes the lame sparrow who was 
once so pert.” 

“ Silence, fool !” cried a loud voice, “ or I will 
break your head for you.” And Juvenel de 
Royans came forward, holding out his hand to 
Jean Charost. “ Let us be friends, De Brecy,” 
he said. “ I have done you some wrong — I have 
acted foolishly — like a boy ; but this last fatal 
night, and this day, have made a man of me, and 
I tiiist a wiser one than I have ever shown my- 
self. Forget the past, and let us be friends.” 

^ “ Most willingly,” replied Jean Charost. “ But 
I must get to my chamber, De Royans, for, to 
say the truth, I can hardly drag my limbs along.’ 

“ Curses upon them !” replied De Royans, 
“ the cruel monsters, to torture a man for faith- 
fulness to his lord ! Let me help you, De Bre* 
cy.” And, putting his strong arm through that 
of Jean Charost, he aided him to ascend the 


80 


AGNES SOREL. 


stairs, and with rough kindness laid him down 
upon his bed. 

Here, during the evening, the young secretary 
was visited by various members of the household, 
though, to say truth, he was in no very fit state 
to entertain them. Lomelini came, with his soft 
and somewhat cunning courtesy, to ask what he 
could do for the young gentleman — doubting not 
that he would take a high place in the favor of 
the duchess. The chaplain came to excuse him- 
self for having suggested certain questions to the 
king’s counsel, and did it somewhat lamely. 

Old Monsieur Blaize visited him, to express 
warm and hearty applause of the young man’s 
conduct in all respects. “ Do your devoir as 
knightly in the field, my young friend,” he said, 
“ as you have done it before the Council, and you 
will win your golden spurs in the first battle that 
is stricken.” 

Several of the late duke’s knights, with whom 
Jeaii Charost had foi-med no acquaintance, came 
also to express their approbation ; but praise fell 
upon a faint and heavy ear ; for all he had passed 
through was not without consequences more seri- 
ous than were at first apparent. 

Martin Grille overflowed with joy and satis- 
faction so sincere and radiant at the escape of his 
master, that Jean Charost could not help being 
touched by the good valet’s attachment. But, as 
a true Frenchman, he was full of his own part in 
the young gentleman’s deliverance, attributing 
to himself and his own dexterity all honor and 
praise for the result which had been attained. 
He perceived not, for some time, in his self-grat- 
ulations, that Jean Charost could neither smile 
nor listen ; that a red spot came in his cheek ; 
that his eyes grew blood-shot, and his lip parched. 
At length, however, a few incoherent words 
alarmed him, and he determined to sit by his 
master’s bedside and watch. Before morning 
he had to seek a physician ; and then began all 
the follies of the medical art, common in those 
times. 

For fourteen days, however, Jean Charost was 
utterly unconscious of whether he was treated 
well or ill, kindly or the reverse ; and at the end 
of that time, when the light of reason returned, it 
was but faint and feeble. When first he became 
fully conscious, he found himself lying in a small 
room, of which he thought he recollected some- 
thing. The light of an early spring day was 
streaming in through an open window, with the 
fresh air, sweet and balmy ; and the figure of 
a middle-aged man, in a black velvet gown, was 
seen going out of the door. 

The eyes of the young man turned from one 
object around him to another. There was a lit- 
tle writing-table, two or three wooden settles, a 
brazen sconce upon the wall, a well-polished 
floor of brick, an ebony crucifix, with a small 
fountain of holy water beneath it — all objects to 
which his eyes had been accustomed five or six 
months before. The figure he had seen going 
out, with its quiet, firm carriage, and easy dig- 
nity, was one that he recollected well; and he 
asked himself, “ Was he really still in the house 
of Jacques Coeur, and was the whole episode of 
Agnes, axid Juvenel de Royans, and the impris- 
onment, and the torture, and the Duke of Orleans 
nothing but a dream?” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A WEEK, a fortnight, a month ; what are they 
in the long, long, boundless lapse of time ? A 
point — a mere point on which the eye of memory 
hardly rests in the look-back of a lifetime, un- 
less some of those marking facts which stamp 
particular periods indelibly upon the heart have 
given it a durable significance. Yet, even in so 
brief a space, how much may be done. Circum- 
scribe it as you will — make it a single hour — tie 
down the passing of that hour to one particular 
spot ; and in that hour, and on that spot, deeds 
may be written on eternity affecting the whole 
earth at the time, affecting the whole human race 
forever. No man can ever overestimate the 
value of the actions of an hour. 

Within the period of Jean Charost’s sickness 
and recovery, up to the time when he fully re- 
gained his consciousness, events had been going 
on around him which greatly influenced, not only 
his fate, but the fate of mighty nations. The 
operation, indeed, was not immediate; but it 
was direct and clear ; and we must pause for a 
moment in the more domestic history which we 
are giving, to dwell upon occurrences of general 
importance, without a knowledge of which our 
tale could hardly be understood. 

In confusion and dismay, accompanied by few 
attendants, and in a somewhat stealthy manner, 
John of Burgundy fled from Paris, after making 
his strange and daring confession of the murder 
of his near kinsman, and the brother of his king. 

When informed of the avowal, the Duke of 
Bourbon, his uncle, and many other members of 
the king’s council, expressed high displeasure that 
the Duke of Berri and the King of Sicily had suf- 
fered him to quit the door of the council-cham- 
ber, except as a prisoner ; and perhaps those 
two princes themselves saw the error they had 
committed. Had they acted boldly and decid- 
edly upon the mere sense of justice and right, 
France would have been spared many a bloody 
hour, a disastrous defeat, and a long subjugation. 
But when the time of repentance came, repent- 
ance was too late. The Duke of Burgundy was 
gone, and the tools of his revenge, though he had 
boldly named them, had followed their lord. 

All had gone, as criminals flying from justice, 
and such was their terror and apprehension of 
pursuit, that they threw down spiked balls in the 
snow behind them as they went, to lame the 
horses of those who might follow. In the course 
of his flight, however, the Duke of Burgundy re- 
covered in part his courage and a sense of his 
dignity. His situation was still perilous indeed ; 
for he had raised enmity and indignation against 
him in the hearts of all the princes of the blood 
royal, and of many of the noblest men in France. 
Nay more, he had alienated the most sincere 
and the most honorable of his own followers, 
while the king himself, just recovered from one 
of his lamentable fits of insanity, was moved by 
every feeling of affection, and by the sense of 
justice and of honor, to punish the shameless 
murderer of his brother. 

No preparation of any importance had been 
made to meet this peril; and the Duke of Bur- 
gundy was saved alone by the hesitating counsels 
of old and timid men, who still procrastinated till 
is was too late to act. 

In the mean time, the murderer determined 
upon bis course. He not only avowed, but at- 
tempted to justify the act upon motives so wild, 


AGNES SOREL. 


81 


so irrational, so destitute of every real and sub- 
stantial foundation, that they could not deceive 
a child, and no one even pretended to be de- 
ceived. He accused his unhappy victim of 
crimes that Louis of Orleans never dreamed of 
— of aiming at the crown — of practicing upon the 
health and striking at the life of the king, his 
brother, by magical arts and devices. He did 
all, in short, to calumniate his memory, and to 
represent his assassination as an act necessary to 
the safety of the crown and the country. At the 
same time, he sent messengers to his good citi- 
zens of Flanders, to his vassals of Artois, to all 
his near relations, to all whom he could persuade 
or could command, to demand immediate aid 
and assistance against the vengeful sword which 
he fancied might pursue him, and he soon found 
himself at the head of a force with which he 
might set the power of his king at defiance. 
Lille, Ghent, Amiens, bristled with armed men, 
and John of Burgundy soon felt that the murder 
of his cousin had put the destinies of France into 
his hands. 

While this was taking place in the north and 
west, a different scene was being enacted in 
Paris; a scene which, if the popular heart was 
not the basest thing that ever God created, the 
popular mind the lightest and most unreasonable, 
should have roused the whole citizens to grief 
for him whom they had lost, to indignation 
against his daring murderer. The Duchess of 
Orleans, accompanied by her youngest son, en- 
tered Paris as a mourner, and threw herself at 
the feet of her brother and her king, praying for 
simple justice. The will of the murdered prince 
was opened; and, though his faults were many 
and glaring, that paper showed the frank and 
generous character of the man, and was refuta- 
tion enough of the vile calumnies circulated 
against him. So firm and strong had been his 
confidence, so full and clear his intention of main- 
taining in every respect the agreement of pacifi- 
cation lately signed between himself and the 
Duke of Burgundy, that he left the guardian- 
ship of his children to the very man who had so 
treacherously caused his assassination. None of 
his friends, none who had ever served him, were 
forgotten, and the tenacity of his affection was 
shown by his remembering many whom he had 
not seen for years. It was not wonderful, then, 
that those who knew and loved him clung to his 
memory with strong attachment, and with a rev- 
erence which some of his acts might not alto- 
gether warrant. It would not have been won- 
derful if the generous closing of his life had taught 
the populace of Paris to forget his faults and to 
revere his character. But the herd of all great 
cities is but as a pack of hounds, to be cried on 
by the voice of the huntsman against any prey 
that is in view; and the herd of Paris is more 
reckless in its fierceness than any other on all the 
earth. 

Fortune was with the Duke of Burgundy, and 
alas ! boldness, decision, and skill likewise. He 
held a conference with the Duke of Berri, and 
the King of Sicily in his own city of Amiens, 
swarming with his armed men. He placed over 
the door of the humble house in which he lodged 
two lances crossed, the one armed with its steel 
head, the other unarmed, ungarlanded— a sig- 
nificant indication that he was ready for peace 
or war. The reproaches of the princes he re- 
pelled with insolence, and treated their counsels 
and remonstrances with contempt. Instead of 


coming to Paris and submitting himself humbly 
to the king, as they advised, he marched to St. 
Denis with a large force, and then, after a day\s 
hesitation, entered the capital, armed cap-d-pie, 
amid the acclamations of the populace. 

The Hotel d’Artois, already a place of consid- 
erable strength, received additional fortifications, 
and all the houses round about it were filled with 
his armed men ; but especial care was taken that 
the soldiery should commit no excess upon the 
citizens, and though he bearded his king upon 
the throne, and overawed the royal council, with 
the true art of a demagogue he was humble and 
courteous toward the lowest citizens, flattered 
those whom he despised, and eagerly sought to 
make converts to his party in every class of s6- 
ciety, partly by corruption, and partly by terror. 
Wherever he went the people followed at his 
heels, shouting his name, and vociferating, “ No^l, 
no6l !” and gradually the unhappy king, oppress- 
ed by his own vassal, though adored by his peo- 
ple, fell back into that lamentable state from 
which he had but lately recovered. 

Such was the state of Paris when Jean Charost 
raised his head, and gazed around the room in 
which he was lying. His sight was somewhat 
dim, his brain was somewhat dizzy; feeble he 
felt as infancy ; but yet it was a pleasure to him 
to feel himself in that little room again, to fimcy 
himself moving in plain mediocrity, to believe 
that his experience of courtly life was all a dream. 
What a satire upon all those objects which form 
so many men’s vain aspirations ! 

When he had gazed at the window, and at the 
door, and at all the little objects that were scat- 
tered directly before his eyes, he turned feebly 
to look at things nearer to him. He thought he 
heard a sigh close to his bedside; but a plain 
curtain was drawn round the head of the bed, 
and he could only see from behind it part of a 
woman’s black robe falling in large folds over 
the knee. 

The little rustle that he made in turning seem- 
ed to attract the attention of the watcher. The- 
curtain was gently drawn back, and he beheld 
bis mother’s face gazing at him earnestly. Oh, 
it was a pleasant sight ; and he smiled upon her 
with the love that a son can only feel for a 
mother. 

“ My son — my dear son,” she cried ; “ you are- 
better. Oh yes, you are better !” And, darting 
to the door, she called to him who had just gone 
out, “ Messire Jacques, Messire Jacques. He is 
awake now; and he knows me!” 

“ Gently, gently, dear lady,” said Jacq ues 
Coeur, returning to the room. “ We must hive 
great quiet, and all will go well.” 

The widow sat down and wept, and the good 
merchant placed himself by the young man’s 
side, looked down upon him with a fatherly 
smile, and pressed his fingers on the wrist, say- 
ing, “Ay, the Syrian drug has done marvels. 
Canst thou speak, my son ?” 

Jean Charost replied in a voice much stronger 
than might have been expected; but Jacques 
Coeur fell into a fit of thought even while he 
spoke, which lasted some two or three minutes, 
and the young man was turning toward his moth- 
er again, when the good merchant murmured, as 
if speaking to himself, “ I know not well how to- 
act — there are dangers every way. Listen to- 
me, my son, but with perfect calmness, and let 
me have an answer from your own lips, which I 
can send to the great man whose messenger 


AGNES SOREL. 


«2 

waits below. Two days ago we heard that the 
Duke of Burgundy had caused inquiries to be 
made concerning you, as where you were to be 
found, and when you had left the Hotel d’Or- 
leans. To-day he has sent a gentleman to in- 
quire if you will take service with him. He of- 
fers you the post of second squire of his body, 
and promises knighthood on the first occasion. 
What do you answer, Jean ?” 

Jean Charost thought for a moment, and then 
laid his hand upon his brow ; but at length he 
said, “ ’Twere better to tell him that I am too ill 
to answer, or even to think, but that I will either 
wait upon him or send him my reply in a few 
days.” 

“ Wisely decided,” said Jacques Cceur, rising. 
" That answer will do right well ;” and, quitting 
the room, he left the door open behind him, so 
that the young man could hear him deliver the 
message word for word, merely prefacing it by 
saying, “ He sends his humble duty to his high- 
ness, and begs to say — 

A roi^h voice, in a somewhat haughty tone, 
..replied, “Is he so very ill, then, sir merchant? 
His highness is determined to know in all cases 
who is for him and who is against him. I trust 
you tell me true, therefore.” » 

“ You can go up, fair sir, and see,” replied 
Jacques Cceur; “ but I must beg you not to dis- 
turb him with any talk.” 

The other voice made no reply, but the mo- 
ment after Jean Charost could hear a heavy step 
coming up the stairs, and a good-looking man, of 
a somewhat heavy countenance, completely arm- 
ed, but with his beaver up, appeared in the door- 
way. He merely looked in, however, and the 
pale countenance and emaciated frame of the 
young gentleman seemed to remove his doubts 
at once. 

“ That will do,” he said. “ I can now tell 
what I have seen. The duke will expect an an- 
swer in a few days. If he dies, let him know, 

( for there are plenty eager for the post, I can tell 
; you.” 

Thus saying, he turned away and closed the 
tdoor ; and Madame De Brecy exclaimed, “ God 
1 forbid that you should die, my son, or serve that 
Ibad man either.” 

“So say I too,” replied Jean Charost. “I 
know not why you should feel so regarding him, 
dear mother, but I can not divest my mind of a 
suspicion that he countenanced, if he did not 
prompt, the death of the Duke of Orleans.” 

“ Do you not know that he has avowed it ?” 
exclaimed Madame De Brecy ; but her son’s face 
tamed so deadly pale, even to the very lips, that 
Jacques Cceur interposed, saying gently, “ Be- 
ware — beware, dear lady. He can not bear any 
such tidings now. He will soon be well enough 
to hear all.” 

His judgment proved right. From that mo- 
ment every hour gave Jean Charost some addi- 
’ tional strength ; and that very day, before night- 
fall, he heard much that imported him greatly to 
! know. He now learned that the Duchess of Or- 
leans, after a brief visit to the capital to demand 
justice upon the murderers of her husband, had 
judged it prudent to retire to Blois, and to with- 
draw all the retainers of the late duke. Jean 
Charost, being in no situation to bear so long a 
journey, she had commended him especially to 
the care of Jacques Cceur, who had ridden in 
■ haste to Paris on the news of assassination. He 
now learned, also, that one of the last acts of the 


duke had been to leave him a pension of three 
hundred crowns — then a large sum — charged 
upon the county of Vertus, and that a packet ad- 
dressed to him, sealed with the duke’s private 
signet, and marked, “ To be read by his own 
eye alone,” had been found among the papers at 
the chateau of Beaute. 

He would have fain heard more, and prolonged 
the conversation upon subjects so interesting to 
him, but Jacques Cceur wisely refused to gratify 
him, and contrived to dole out his information 
piece by piece, avoiding, as far as possible, all 
that could excite or agitate him. A pleasant inter- 
lude, toward the fall of evening, was afforded by 
the arrival of Martin Grille, whose joy at seeing 
his young master roused fi'om a stupor which he 
had fancied would only end in death was touch- 
ing in itself, although it assumed somewhat ludi- 
crous forms. He capered about the room as if 
he had been bit by a tarantula, and in the midst 
of his dancing he fell upon his knees, and thanked 
God and the blessed Virgin for the miraculous 
cure of his young lord, which he attributed en- 
tirely to his having vowed a wax candle of three 
pounds’ weight to burn in the Lady Chapel of the 
Notre Dame in case of Jean Charost’s recovery. 
It seems that since the arrival of Madame de 
Brecy in Paris, she and Martin Grille had equal- 
ly divided the task of sitting up all night with 
her son ; and well had the faithful valet performed 
his duty, for, without an effort, or any knowledge 
on his part, Jean Charost had won the enthusi- 
astic love and respect of one who had entered 
his service with a high contempt for his want of 
experience, and perhaps some intention of mak- 
ing the best of a good place. 

Well has it been said that force of character 
is the most powerful of moral engines, for it 
works silently, and even without the conscious- 
ness of those who are subject to its influence, 
upon all that approaches it. How -often is it 
that we see a man of no particular brilliance of 
thought, of manner, or of expression, come into 
the midst of turbulent and unruly spirits, and 
bend them like oziers to his will. Some people 
will have it that it is the clearness with which 
his thoughts are expressed, or the clearness with 
which they are conceived, the definiteness of his 
directions, the promptness of his decisions, which 
gives him this power ; but if we look closely, we 
shall find that it is force of character — a quality 
of the mind which men feel in others rather than 
perceive, and which they yield to often without 
knowing' why. 

The following morning rose like a wayward 
child, dull and sobbing ; but Jean Charost woke 
refreshed and reinvigorated, after a long, calm 
night of sweet and natural sleep. His mother 
was again by his bedside, and she took a pleas- 
ure in telling him how carefully Martin Gnlle 
had preserved all his little treasures in the Hotel 
d’Orleans, at a time when the assassination of the 
duke had thrown all the better members of the 
household into dismay and confusion, and left 
the house itself, for a considerable time, at the 
mercy of the knaves and scoundrels that are nev- 
er wanting in a large establishment. 

She was interrupted in her details by the en- 
trance of the very person of whom she spoke, 
and at the same time loud cries and shouts and 
hurras rose up from the street, inducing J.ean 
Charost to inquire if the king were passing 
along. 

“ No, fair sir,” answered Martin Grille. “ It 


AGNES SOREL. 


83 


is the king’s king. But, on my life, my lord of 
Burgundy does not much fear rusting his armor, 
or he would not ride through the streets on such 
a day as this.” 

“ Does he go armed, then ?” asked Jean Cha- 
rost. 

“ From head to foot,” answered his mother ; 
and Martin Grille added, He is seldom with- 
out four or five hundred men-at-arms with him. 
Such a sight was never seen in Paris. But I 
must go my ways, and get the news of the day, 
for these are times when every man should know 
whatever his neighbor is doing.” 

“ I fear your intelligence must stop somewhat 
short of that,” said Jean Charost. 

“ I shall get all the intelligence I want,” re- 
plied the valet, with a sapient nod of the head. 
** I have a singing bird in the court cage that al- 
ways sings me truly;’’ and away he went in 
search of news. 

During his absence, a consultation was held 
between Madame De Brecy,her son, and Jacques 
Coeur as to what was to be done in regard to the 
message of the Duke of Burgundy. “We have 
only put off the evil day,” said Jacques Coeur, 
“ and some reply must soon be given.” 

“ My reply can be but one,” answered Jean 
Charost ; “ that I will never serve a murderer ; 
still less serve the murderer of my dear lord.” 

Madame De Brecy looked uneasy, and the face 
of Jacques Coeur was very giuve. 

“You surely would not have me do so, my 
dear mother ?” said the young gentleman, rais- 
ing himself on his arm, and gazmg in her face. 
“ You could not wish me, my good and honora- 
ble friend ?” 

“ No, Jean, no,” answered Jacques Coeur ; 
“ but yet such a reply is perilous ; and before it 
is made, we must be beyond the reach of the 
strong arm that rules all things in this capital. 
You have had a taste, my son, of what great men 
will dare do to those who venture to oppose them, 
even in their most unjust commands. Depend 
upon it, the Duke of Burgundy will not scruple at 
acts which the king’s council themselves would 
not venture to authorize. Why he should wish to 
engage you in his service I can not tell ; but that 
he does so earnestly is evident, and refusal will 
be very dangerous, even in the mildest form.” 

“ Some fanciful connection between my fate 
and his was told him one night by an astrologer,” 
said Jean Charost. “ That is the only motive he 
can have.” 

“ Perhaps so,” replied Jacques Coeur, thought- 
fully ; and then he added, the moment after, “ and 
et I do not know. His highness is not one to 
e influenced in his conduct by any visionary 
things; they may have weight with him in 
thought, but not in action. If he had been told 
that his death would follow the poor duke’s as a 
natural consequence, he would have killed him 
notwithstanding. He must have seen something 
in you, my young friend, that he likes — that he 
thinks will suit some of his purposes.” 

“ He has seen little of me that should so prepos- 
sess him,” answered the young gentleman ; “ he 
has seen me peremptorily refuse to obey his own 
commands, and obstinately deny the council the 
information they wanted, even though they tried 
to wring it out by torture.” 

“ Probably the very cause,” answered Jacques 
Coeur ; “ he loves men of resolution. But let us 
return to the subject, my young friend. Your 
answer must be somewhat softened. We must 


say that you are still too ill to engage in any 
service ; that you must have some months for re- 
pose, and that then you will willingly obey any 
of his highness’s just commands.” 

“Never, never!” answered Jean Charost, 
warmly ; “ I will never palter with my faith and 
duty toward the dead. If ever I can couch a 
lance against this duke’s breast, I will aim it 
well, and the memory of my master will steady 
my arm ; but serve him I will never, nor even 
lead him to expect it.” 

Jacques Coeur and Madame De Brecy looked 
at each other in silence ; but they urged him no 
more ; and the only question in their minds now 
was, what course they could take not to suffer 
the young man’s safety to be periled in conse- 
quence of a resolution which they dared not dis- 
approve. 

In the midst of their consultation Martin Grille 
returned, evidently burdened with intelligence, 
and that not of a very pleasant character. 

“ What is to be done, I know not,” he said, 
with much trepidation ; “ I can not, and I will 
not leave you, sir, whatever may come of it.” 

“ What is the matter, Martin ?” asked Jacques 
Co0ur. “ Be calm, be calm young man, and tell 
us plainly, whatever be the evil.” 

“ Listen, then, listen,” said Martin Grille, low- 
ering his voice almost to a whisper. “ An order 
is given out secretly to seize every Orleanist now 
remaining in Paiis in his bed this night at twelve 
of the clock. It is true ; it is true, beyond all 
doubt. I had it from my cousin Petit Jean, who 
got it from his father, old Caboche, now the Duke 
of Burgundy’s right-hand man in Paris.” 

“ Then we must go at once,” said Jacques 
Cceur “ Whatever be the risk, we must try if 
you can bear the motion of a litter, Jean.” 

“ But all the gates are closed except two,” said 
Martin Grille, “ and they suffer no one to go out 
without a pass. News has got abroad of all this. 
The queen went yesterday to Melun. The King 
of Sicily, the Duke of Berri, the Duke of Brit- 
anny have fled this morning. The Duke of Bour- 
bon has been long gone, and the Burgundians 
are resolved that no more shall escape.” 

Jacques Coeur gazed sternly down upon the 
floor, and Madame De Brecy wrung her hands in 
despair. 

“ Go, my friend, go,” said Jean Charost ; “ you 
are not marked out as an Orleanist. Take my 
mother with you. God may protect me even 
here. If not, his will be done.” 

“Stay,” cried Martin Grille, “stay! I have 
thought of a way, perhaps. Many of these Bur- 
gundian nobles are poor. Can not ^ou lend one 
of them a thousand crowns. Monsieur Jacques, 
and get a pass for yourself and your family. He 
will be glad enough to give it, to see a creditor’s 
back turned, especially when he knows he can 
keep him at arm’s length as long as he will. I 
am sure my young lord will repay you.” 

“ Repay me !” exclaimed Jacques Coeur, indig- 
nantly ; “ but your hint is a good one. I will 
act upon it, but not exactly as you propose. 
Some of them owe me enough already to wish 
me well out of Paris. Tell all my people to get 
ready for instant departure ; and look for a litter 
that will hold two. I will away at once, and 
see what can be done.” 

“ Have jilenty of men with you, Messire 
Jacques,” said Martin Grille, eagerly; “ men that 
can fight, for there are Burgundian bands patrol- 
ling all round the city. I am not good at fight- 


84 


AGNES SOREL. 


ing, and ray young lord is as bad as I am 
now.” 

“We must take our chance,” said Jacques 
Occur, and quitted the room. 



CHAPTER XXXI. ' 

It was past ten o’clock at night, when a litter, 
escorted by four men on horseback, passed the 
gates of Paris. A short detention took place be- 
fore the guards at the gates would suffer the party 
to proceed, and one man went into the guard- 
house, and brought out a lantern to examine the 
inside of the litter and the countenances of the 
cavaliers. He used it also to examine the pass, 
though, to say truth, he could not read a word, 
albeit an officer of some standing. In this re- 
spect none of his companions were in better 
case than himself ; and they all declared that the 
handwriting was so bad that nobody on earth 
could read it. It seemed likely, at one time, 
that this illegibility of the writing, or want of 
the reading faculty on the part of the guards, 
might be made an excuse for detaining the whole 
party till somebody with better eyes or better 
instruction should come up. But one of the horse- 
men dismounted, saying, “ I will read it to you;” 
and looking over the officer’s shoulder, he pro- 
ceeded thus, “ I, William, Marquis De Giac, do 
hereby strictly enjoin and command you, in the 
name of the high and mighty prince, John, duke 
of Burgundy, to pass safely through the gates of 
Paris, without let or impediment, Maitre Jacques 
Coeur, clerk, his wife, and three serving-men, 
and to give them aid and comfort in case of need, 
ffigned, De Giac.” 

“ Is that it?” asked the officer, staring on the 
paper. 

“ Yes, don’t you see?” answered Jacques Coeur, 
pointing with his finger. “ To let pass the gates 
of the city of Paris.” 

“Well, well, go along,” said the man; and, 
mounting his horse again, the merchant led the 
way ; and the litter, with those that it contained, 
followed. 

For a wonder, Martin Grille held his tongue 
all this time ; but ere they had gone half a dozen 
furlongs, he approached the side of the litter, 
and, putting in his head, asked how his young 
master was. 

“Better, Martin, better,” replied Jean Charost. 
“ Every hour I feel better.” 

“Well, thank God, we are out of the city,” 
said Martin Grille. “ My heart has been so often 
in my mouth during this last half hour, that I 
thought I should bite it if I did but say a word. 
I wonder which way we are to direct our steps 
now.” 

“ Toward Bourges, Martin,” replied Jacques 
Coeur, who was riding near. 

“ Toward Bourges !” said Martin Grille. “ Then 
what’s to become of the baby?” 

“ The baby!” repeated Madame De Brecy, in 
a tone as full of surprise as that in which Martin 
bad repeated the words “toward Bourges.” 
“ In Heaven’s name, what baby?” 

Jean Charost laid his hand gently on his moth- 
er, saying, “It is very true, dear mother. A 
young child — quite an infant — has been given 
into my care, and I have promised to protect and 
educate her.” 

“ But whose child is she?” asked Madame De 


Brecy, in a tone of some alarm and consterna- 
tion. 

“ I can not tell,” replied her sou. “ I believe 
she is an orphan ; but I am ignorant of all the 
facts.” 

“ She is an orphan in a double sense,” said 
Jacques Coeur, mingling in the discourse ; “ at 
least I believe so. I have nothing to guide me 
but suspicion, it is true; but my suspicion is 
strong. Ay, my young friend : you are surprised 
that I know aught of this affair ; but a friend’s 
eye is often as watchful as a parent’s. I saw 
the child, some days after it was given into your 
charge, and there is a strong likeness — as strong 
as there can be between an infant and a grown 
person — between this poor thing and one who 
is no more.” 

“Who — who?” asked Jean Charost, eagerly. 

“ One whom you never saw,” replied Jacques 
Coeur ; and Jean Charost was silent ; for although 
he himself entertained suspicions, his friend’s 
words were quite adverse to them. 

“ It was well bethought of, Martin,” continued 
Jacques Coeur, after a short pause. “We had 
better take our way by Beaute. It is not far 
round, and we shall all the sooner get within the 
posts of the Orleans party ; for they are already 
preparing for war. We can not take the child 
with us, for she is too young to go without a 
nurse ; but we can make aiTangements for her 
coming hereafter ; and of course that which you 
promised when in peril of your life had you re- 
fused, must be performed to the letter, my young 
friend.” 

“ Assuredly,” replied Jean Charost. “ Can we 
reach Beaute to-night?” 

“ I fear not,” answered the merchant. “ But 
we must go on till we have put danger behind 
Us. Now draw the curtains of the litter again, 
and try to sleep, my son. Sleep is a strange 
whiler away of weary hours.” 

But, though the pace of the horse-litter was 
drowsy enough, it was long before any thing like 
slumber came near the eyes of Jean Charost; 
and he had just closed them, with a certain sort 
of heaviness of the lids, when the words “Halt, 
halt, whoever you are !” were heard on all sides, 
together with the tramp of many horses, and the 
jingling of arms. Madame De* Brecy and her 
son drew back the curtains instantly; and they 
then found that they were surrounded by a large 
party of men-at-arms, two or three of whom were 
conversing with Jacques Coeur, a little in advance. 

The moon had somewhat declined ; but it was 
shining on the faces of several of the group ; and, 
after gazing out for a liRment or two, Jean Cha- 
rost exclaimed, “ De Royans — Monsieur De Roy- 
ans !” 

His voice, which \tos weak, was at first not 
attended to ; but, on. repeating the call, one of 
the horsemen turned .quickly round and rode up 
to the side of the littw. 

“ Ah, De Brecy, is that you?” cried the young 
man, holding out his hand to him- “ Here, Mes- 
sire What’s-your-name, we will believe you now; 
for here is one who has suffered enough for his 
faithfulness to the good duke. Why, how is this, 
De Brecy? In a litter — when we want every 
man in the saddle. But I heard you were very 
ill. You must get well soon, and strike a good 
stroke beside me and the rest, for the memory 
of our good lord, whom they sent to heaven- be- 
fore his time. Oh, if I could get one blow at 
that Burgundian’s head, I would aim better 


AGNES SOREL. 


85 


than I did at the Quintain. Well, you shall come 
on with us to Juvisy, and we will lodge and en- 
tertain you.” 

Thus saying, Juvenel de Rt^yans turned away, 
rode back to his companions, and gave them ex- 
planations which seemed satisfactory; for the 
merchant and his party were not only suffered to 
proceed, but obtained the escort of some forty or 
fifty men-at-arms, who had been about to return 
to J uvisy when they fell in with the little caval- 
cade of Jacques Coeur. 

None of the many moral enigmas with which 
we are surrounded is more difficult of compre- 
hension to the mind of a man of fixed and reso- 
lute character than the sudden changes which 
come upon more impulsive and volatile people. 
The demeanor of Juvenel de Royans was a mat- 
ter of serious and puzzling thought to Jean Cha- 
rest through the rest of the journey. He seemed 
so entirely changed, not only in feelings toward 
the young gentleman himself, but in disposition. 
Frank, active, impetuous as ever, he had, in the 
space of a few terrible weeks, lost the boyish 
flippancy of manner, and put on the manly char- 
acter at once. Jean Charost could not under- 
stand it at all ; and it seemed to him most sljange 
that one who would willingly have cut his throat 
not a month before, should now, upon the estab- 
lishment of one very slight link between them, 
treat him as a dear and ancient friend. Jean 
Charost was less of a Frenchman than Juvenel 
de Royans, both by birth and education ; for the 
latter had been born in the gay and movable 
south, and had been indulged, if not spoiled, dur- 
ing all his early life ; while the former had first 
seen the light in much more northern regions, 
and had received very early severe lessons of 
adversity. Neither, perhaps, had any distinct no- 
tion of the real causes of their former enmity; 
but Jean Charost was, at least, well satisfied that 
it should be terminated ; and, as he was of no 
rancorous disposition, he gladly received the prof- 
fered friendship of his former adversaiy ; though, 
to say sooth, he counted it at somewhat less than 
it v«as worth, on account of the suddenness with 
which it had arisen. He knew not that some of 
if^ trees whiqh spring up the most rapidly are 
nevertheless tlmjnbst valuable. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

Let us abridge and improve French history. 
As it is generally written, it is quite susceptible 
of both abridgment and improvement. 

The power of the Duke of Burgimdy was with- 
out bounds in the city oLParis, and his daring 
and his ferocity were as b’^ndlessK He remem- 
bered ancient offenses as tenaciously as the Duke 
of Orleans had remembered kindnesses, and ev- 
ery one in Paris who had at any time shown en- 
mity toward him either sought reffige in flight 
or stayed to receive abun^nt marks of his vin- 
dictive memory. But heTlad skill also, as well 
as daring ; and especially that dark and politic 
skill which teaches the demagogue to turn the 
best and wisest deeds of an adversary to his dis- 
advantage in the eyes of the people, and his 
own worst actions to the services of his own am- 
bition. Oh, what a fool is The People ! Always 
the dupe of hypocrisy and lies, always deceived 
by promises and pretenses, always the lover and 
tha support of those who at heart most despise 
and condemn it. That great, many-headed fool 
followed the duke’s path with acclamations 


wherever he appeared, although the evils under 
which they labored, notwithstanding all his prom- 
ises, were augmented rather than diminished by 
his sway. 

A hired sophist defended the assassination of 
the Duke of Orleans, in presence of the court and 
the university, and the people shouted loudly, 
though the excuse was too empty to deceive a 
child. The duke declared that the maladminis- 
tration of Orleans compelled the continuance of 
the taxes promised to be repealed, and the peo- 
ple shouted loudly still. The Prevot De Tignon- 
ville was punished and degraded for bringing 
two robbers to justice, though every one knew 
the real ofiense was his proposal to search the 
houses of the princes for the assassins of the Duke 
of Orleans ; and still the people shouted. 

Nevertheless, fortune was not altogether con- 
stant ; and while the power of the duke increased 
in the capital, let him do whatever he would, a 
cloud was gathering round him from which he 
found it necessary to fly. The Duchess of Or- 
leans cried loudly for vengeance ; the Dukes of 
Bourbon, Brittany, and Berri armed for her sup- 
port, and for the deliverance of the throne. The 
queen, having the dauphin with her, lent weight 
and countenance to the party, and gradually the 
forces of the confederates increased so far that 
Paris was no longer a safe asylum for the object 
of their just indignation. 

It was then that a revolt took place in Liege, 
where the brother-in-law of the duke held the 
anomalous position of pi'ince bishop; and Bur- 
gundy hurried away from Paris both to aid his 
relation, and to avoid the advance of the Orlean- 
ist army, without risking honor and power upon 
an unequal battle. For a short space his position 
was perilous. The strong-headed and turbulent 
citizens of Liege — no soft and silky burghers, as 
they are represented by the great novelist in an 
after reign — stout and hardy soldiers as ever 
were, dared the whole power of Burgundy. An 
enemy’s army was in his rear; all the princes of 
the blood, the council, and most of the great vas- 
sals of France were against him; but he fought 
and won a battle, captured Liege, and turned 
upon his steps once more to overawe his enemies 
in France. 

Time enough had been given for disunion to 
spread among the allied princes. William, count 
of Holland, interfered to gain over the queen to 
the Burgundian party, and a hollow peace was 
brought about, known as the peace of Chartres, 
which ended in the ascendency of the Duke of 
Burgundy, and the temporary abasement of his 
enemies. 

Once more the vengeance of the duke was 
visited on the heads of all distinguished persons 
who had shown themselves even indifferent to 
his cause ; but he forgot not his policy in his an- 
ger, and the spoils of his victims conciliated fresh 
partisans. 

Intrigue succeeded intrigue for several years, 
and, in the midst of disasters and disappoint- 
ments, the spirit of Valentine, duchess of Orleans, 
passed away from the earth (on which she had 
known little but sorrow), still calling for justice 
upon the murderers of her husband. Her chil- 
dren, however, were powerless at the time, and 
it was not till the marriage of her eldest son with 
the daughter of the Count of Armagnac that the 
light of hope seemed to break upon them. Then 
began that famous struggle between the parties 
known in history as the Burgundians and Ar- 


86 


AGNES SOREL. 


inaguacs. Paris became the great object of strife, 
and, during the absence of the Duke of Burgun- 
dy, it was surrounded, if not actually blockaded 
by the troops of Armagnac. The Orleanist party 
within the walls comprised many of the noblest 
and most enlightened men in France; but the 
lower classes of the people were almost to a man 
Burgundians, and, forming themselves into armed 
bands, under the leading of John of Troyes, a 
surgeon, and Simon Caboche, the cutler, they 
received the name of Cabochians, and exercised 
that atrocious ferocity which is the general char- 
acteristic of an ignorant multitude. There was 
a reign of terror in Paris in the fifteenth as well 
as in the eighteenth century, and many had cause 
to know that the red scarfs of Burgundy were 
dyed in blood. Anarchy and confusion still 
reigned within the walls : nor probably was the 
state of the country much better. But at length 
the Duke of Burgundy, unable to oppose his en- 
emies in the field unaided, sought for and obtain- 
ed the assistance of six thousand English archers, 
and entered Paris in triumph. 

The offensive was soon after taken by the Bur- 
gundians, and the Duke of Berri was besieged in 
Bourges; but Frenchmen were disinclined to fight 
against Frenchmen, and a treaty as hollow as 
any of the rest was concluded under the walls of 
that place. Even while the negotiations went on, 
means were taken to open the eyes of the dau- j 
phin to the ambition of the Burgimdian prince ; 
and John, sans peur, saw himself opposed in the 
council by one who had long been subservient 
to his will. 

But the duke found easy means to crush this 
resistance. The people of Paris were roused, at 
his beck, into tumult; the Bastile was besieged 
by the armed bands of Caboche and his com- 
panions, the palace of the dauphin invaded, and 
he himself reduced to the state of a mere pris- 
oner. More bloodshed followed ; and Burgundy 
at length found that an enraged multitude is not 
so easily calmed as excited. His situation became 
somewhat difficult. Although the dauphin was : 
shut up in the H6tel St. Pol, he found means of 
communicating with the princes of the blood royal 
without ; and nothing seemed left for the Duke 
of Burgundy but an extension of the convention 
of Bourges to a general peace with all his oppo- 
nents. This was concluded at Pontoise, much 
against the will of the Parisians ; the dauphin J 
was set at liberty ; and the leaders of the Armag- 
nac party were permitted to enter Paris. Bur- , 
gundy soon found that he had made a mistake ; 
that his popularity with the people was shaken, 
and his power over them gone. He was even fear- 
ful for his person ; and well might he be so. But 
his course was speedily determined ; and, after 
having failed in an attempt to carry off the dau- 
phin while on a party of pleasure at Vincennes, 
he retired in haste to Flanders. 

A complete change of scene took place ; the 
creatures of the Duke of Burgundy were driven 
from power, and sanguinary retribution marked 
the ascendency of the Armagnac party. 

The easiest labor of Hercules, probably, was 
the destruction of the hydra ; for creatures with 
many heads are always weaker than those with 
one. Dissensions spread among the Armagnac 
faction. The queen and the dauphin disagreed ; 
and the prince, finding the tyranny of the Armag- 
nacs as hard to bear as that of the Burgundians, 
instigated the duke to return to Paris. John 
without fear, however, had not force sufficient 


to effect any great purpose ; and, after an inef- 
fectual attempt to besiege the capital, he retired 
before a large army, gathered from all parts of 
France, with the king and all the princes of the 
blood at its head. Compiegne capitulated to the 
Armagnacs; Soissons was taken by assault; but 
Arras held out, and once more negotiations for 
peace commenced under its walls. A treaty was 
concluded by the influence of the dauphin, who 
was weary of being the shuttle-cock between two 
factions, and resolved to make himself master of 
the capital. His first effort, however, was frus- 
trated, and he was compelled to fly to Bourges. 
With great adroitness, he then took advantage 
of a proposed conference at Corbeil between him- 
self and the allied princes. He agreed to the 
meeting; but while they waited for him at Cor- 
beil, he passed quietly on to Paris, made himself 
master of the capital, and seized the treasures 
which his mother had accumulated in that city. 
Three parties now appeared in France: that of 
the Duke of Burgundy ; that of the allied princes ; 
and that of the dauphin ; and in the mean while, 
an acute enemy, with some just pretensions to 
certain portions of France, and unfounded claims 
to the crown itself, was watching from the shores 
of England for a favorable moment to seize upon 
the long-coveted possession. From the time of 
the treaty of Bretigny, wars and truces had suc- 
ceeded each other between the two countries — 
hostilities and negotiations ; and during the late 
dissensions, English alliance had been sought and 
found by both parties ; but, at the same time, 
long discussions had taken place between the 
courts of France and England with the pretended 
object of concluding a general and definitive 
treaty of peace. Henry demanded much, how- 
ever ; France would grant little ; offensive words 
were added to the rejection of captious proposals ; 
and suddenly the news spread over the country, 
like lightnitig, that Henry the Fifth of England 
had landed in arms upon the coast of France. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. . 

A FEW miles from the strong town of Bourges, 
on the summit of a considerable elevation, was 
a chateau or castle, even then showing some signs 
of antiquity. It was not a very large and mag- 
nificent dwelling, consisting merely of the outer 
walls with their flanking towers, one tall, square 
tower, and one great mass stretching out into the 
court, and rising to the height of two stories. In 
a small, plain chamber, containing every thing 
useful and convenient, but nothing very orna- 
mental, sat a young gentleman of three or four- 
and-twenty years of age, covered with corselet 
and back piece, but with his head and limbs bare 
of armor. Two men, however, were busily en- 
gaged fitting upon him the iron panoply of war. 
One was kneeling at his feet, fastening the greaves 
upon his legs ; the other stood behind, attaching 
the pauldrons and pallets. On a table hard by 
stood a casque and plume, beside which lay the 
gauntlets, the shield, and the sword; and near 
the table stood a lady, somewhat past the middle 
age, gazing gravely and anxiously at the young 
man’s countenance. 

But there was still another person in the room. 
A young girl of some six or seven years of age 
had climbed up upon the gentleman’s knee, and 
was making a necklace lor him of her arms, 
while ever and anon she kissed him tenderly. 


AGNES SOREL. 


87 


“ You must come back, Jean — you must come 
back,” she said ; “ though dear mother says per- 
haps you may never come back — you must not 
leave your own little Agnes. What would she 
do without you ?” 

Jean Charost embraced her warmly, but he 
did not speak; for there were many emotions 
in his heart which he feared might make his 
voice tremble. Few who had seen him six or 
seven years before would have recognized in that 
tall, powerful young man, the slim, graceful lad 
who was secretary to the unfortunate Duke of 
Orleans; nor was the change, perhaps, less in 
his mind than in his person, for although he was 
of that character which changes slowly, yet all 
characters change. The oak requires a hundred 
years; the willow hardly twenty; and as one 
Wer or circle grows upon another in the heart 
of the tree, so do new feelings come over man’s 
spirit as he advances from youth to age. Bach 
epoch in human life has the things pertaining to 
itself. The boy can never divine what the man 
will feel ; the man too little recollects what were 
the feelings of the boy. 

However, the change in Jean Charost, in con- 
sequence of the circumstances in which he had 
been placed, was somewhat different from that 
which might have been expected. He had be 
come tenderer rather than harder in the last sev- 
en years, more flexible rather than more rigid. 
Till between seventeen and eighteen years of 
age, hard necessities, constant application, the 
everlasting dealing with material things, the 
guard which he had been continually forced to 
put upon himself — knowing that not only his 
own future fate might be darkened, but the hap- 
piness and deliverance of a parent might be lost 
by one false step — had all tended to give him an 
unyouthful sternness of principle and of demean- 
or, which had perhaps saved him from many 
evils, but had deprived him of much innocent 
enjoyment. 

Since the death of the Duke of Orleans, how- 
ever, acting altogether as his own master, see- 
ing more of the general world, and with his mind 
relieved from the oppressive cares and anxieties 
which may be said to have frozen his youth, he 
had warmed, as it were, in the sunshine, and 
all the more gentle things of the heart had come 
forth and blossomed. I know not whether the 
love of that dear, beautiful child had not greatly 
aided the change — whether his tenderness for 
her, and her adoring fondness for him, had not 
called out emotions, natural but latent, and af- 
fections which only wanted something to cling 
round. Whenever he returned from any of the 
scenes of strife and trouble in which he embark- 
ed wi^^e rest, one of his first thoughts was of 
Agnes. When he approached the gates of the 
old castle, his eyes were always lifted to see her 
coming to meet him. When he sought a time 
of repose in the plain and unadorned halls of his 
father, no gorgeous tapestry, no gilded ceiling, 
no painted gallery could have ornamented the 
place so well as the smiles of that sweet, young 
fkce. The balmy influence of innocent child- 
hood was felt by him very strongly. 

He was very indulgent toward her. His moth- 
er said he spoiled her. But he used to laugh 
joyfully, and declare that nothing could spoil 
his little Agnes; and, in truth, with him she was 
ever gentle and docile, seeming to love obedi- 
ence to his lightest word. 

And now he was going to leave her — to leave 


all he held most dear in life for a long march 
— for a fierce strife — for a struggle on which the 
fate of France depended. He was not without 
hope, he was not without confidence ; but if al- 
most all men feel some shade of dread when part- 
ing from a well-loved home on any ordinary oc- 
casion — if a chilling conviction of the dreaiy un- 
certainty of all earthly things comes upon them 
even — what must have been his sensations when 
he thought of all that might happen between the 
hours of parting and returning ? 

But the trumpet had sounded throughout the 
land. Every well-wisher of his country was called 
upon to forget his domestic ties, and selfish inter- 
ests, and private quarrels, and arm to repel an 
invader. The appeal was to the hearts of all 
Frenchmen, and he must go. Nay more, he had 
taxed his utmost means, he had mortgaged the 
very bequest of the Duke of Orleans, he had done 
every thing — but impoverish his mother — in or- 
der to carry with him as many men as possible 
to swell the hosts of France. 

The last piece of his armor was buckled on — 
Martin Grille took up the casque — a cup of wine 
was brought, and Jean Charost embraced his 
mother and the child. 

“ How hard your breast is, Jean,” said the lit- 
tle girl. 

“ None too hard,” said the mother. “ God be 
your shield, my son. He is better than sword or 
buckler.” 

“ Amen I” said Jean Charost, and left them. 

Now let us change the scene once more, for 
this must be a chapter of changes. Stand upon 
this little hill with me, beside the great oak, and 
let us look on, as day breaks over the fair scene 
below us. See how beautifully the land slopes 
away there on the north, with the wooded 
heights near Blangy, and the church steeple on 
the rise of the hiU, and the old castle hard by. 
How the light catches upon it, even before the 
day is fully risen ! Even that piece of marshy 
ground, sloping gently up into a meadow, with 
a deep ditch cut here and there across it, acquires 
something like beauty from the purple light of 
the rising sun. There is a little coppice there to 
the westward, with a wind-mill, somewhat like 
that at Creqy, waving its slow arms on the gentle 
moiTiing breeze. How peaceful it all looks ; how 
calm. Can this narrow space, this tranquil scene, 
be the spot on which the destiny of a great king- 
dom is to be decided in an hour ? 

So, perhaps, thought a man placed upon the 
hill near Blangy, as he looked in the direction 
of Azincourt, one half of the steeple of which 
could be seen rising over the slope. Soon, how- 
ever, that quiet scene became full of life. He 
saw a small body of some two hundred men run 
rapidly along under cover of the coppice, bend- 
ing their heads, with no apparent arms, except 
what seemed an ax slung upon the shoulder 
of each. They earned long slim wands in their 
hands, it is true; but to the eye those wands 
were very unserviceable weapons. They reached 
the edge of a ditch upon the meadow, and there 
they disappeared. A loud flourish of martial mu- 
sic followed, and soon after, from behind the 
wood, came on, in steady array, a small body of 
soldiery. They could not have numbered more 
than one or two thousand men at the very most, 
and little like soldiers did they look, except in 
the even firmness of their line. There was no 
glittering steel to be seen. Casque and corselet, 
spear and banner were not there. Not even the 


AGNES SOREL. 


foot*soMier^s jack and morion could be descried 
among them ; but, tattered, travel-worn, and 
many of them bare-headed, they advanced, with 
heavy tramp and steady countenance, in the 
same direction which had been taken by the 
others. The same long wands were in their 
hands, and each bore upon his shoulder a heavy, 
steel-pointed post, while a short sword or ax 
hung upon the thigh, and a well-stored quiver 
was within reach of the right hand. Before 
them rode a knight on horseback, with a trun- 
cheon in his hand, and behind them still, as 
they mai’ched on, sounded the war-stirring trum- 
pet. 

The face of the man who stood there and 
watched was veiy pale, either with fear or some 
other emotion, and eveiy now and then he ap- 
proached a tree to which three horses were tied — 
one of which was fully caparisoned for war — ex- 
amined the bridles, and saw that all was right, 
as if he were anxious that every thing should be 
ready, either for strife or flight. While he was 
thus employed, two other men came up, slowly 
climbing the hill from the eastward ; but there 
was nothing in the appearance of either to give 
any alarm to him who was watching there. The 
one was a round, short personage, with a coun- 
tenance on which nature had stamped cheerful 
good-humor, though his eyes had now in them 
an expression of wild anxiety, which showed 
that he knew what scene was about to be en- 
aujted below. The other was a tall, gaunt man, 
far past the middle age, but his face betrayed no 
emotion. It was still and pale as that of death, 
and changed not even after they had reached a 
point where the whole array of the field was set 
out before them. His brow, however, wore a 
heavy frown ; but that expression seemed habit- 
ual, and not produced by any transitory feeling. 
Both the strangers were habited in the long, gray 
gown of the monk, with a girdle of plain cord, and 
the string of beads attached ; besides which, the 
elder man carried in his hand a staff, and a large 
ebony crucifix. 

The moment their heads rose above the slope, 
so that they could see over into the plain beyond, 
the younger and the stouter man stopped sudden- 
ly, with a look of some alarm, as if the moving 
mass of soldiery had been close to him. “ .Tesu 
Maria!” he exclaimed; ‘‘are those the English, 
brother Albert? I did not know they were half 
80 near.” 

The other answered nothing, and his counte- 
nance changed not while his eye ran over the 
whole country beneath him, with the calm, de- 
liberate, marking look of a man who had beheld 
such scenes before. 

Suddenly, on the right, over the tops of the 
trees, rose up a dense cloud of smoke, which, 
rolling in large volumes into the air, became 
tinged with a dark red hue, and speckled with 
sparks of fire. 

“ What is that ? what is that ?’’ cried the 
younger monk. “ That must be some place on 
fire at Aubain.” 

“ No, no,” replied the other, speaking for the 
first time ; “ that is much nearer. It is either at 
Teneur, or at the farm of our priory of St. George. 
Can the English king have thrown out his right 
wing so far in order to take our army on the 
flank ? If so, one charge would ruin him. But 
no ; he is too wise for that. It must be a strata- 
gem to deceive the Constable.” 

As he spoke, the first comer moved away from 


the horses and joined them, saying, “ God help 
us ! this is a terrible scene, good fathers.” 

The elder monk gazed at him with his motion- 
less countenance, but answered nothing ; and the 
younger one replied, much in his own tone, “ A 
terrible scene, indeed, my son — a terrible scene, 
indeed ! I know not whether it be more so to 
stand as a mere spectator, and witness such a 
sight as will soon be before us, or to mingle in 
the fray, and lose part of its horrors by sharing in 
its fury.” 

“ Oh, I have no doubt which,” answered the 
other. “ My mind is quite made up on that sub- 
ject.” 

“ You may be a man of war,” replied the oth- 
er. “ Indeed, these armed horses seem to speak 
it.” 

“ No. I am a man of peace,” rejoined the 
first-comer. “ Those horses are my master’s, 
not mine; and the fighting is his too. But he 
knows my infinnity, and leaves me here out of 
arrow-shot. The boy who was with me has run 
down the hill, to be nearer to our lord; but I, 
as in duty bound, stay where he placed me. 
I should like very much to know, however, what 
is the name of that farm-house and the two or 
three cottages there, at the edge of the meadow, 
with the deep ditch across it.” 

“ That is called Tramecourt,” replied the 
younger monk. “ It is but a small hamlet ; and 
I heard this morning that our riotous soldiers 
had driven all the people out of it, and eaten up 
all their stores. Why do you ask, my son?” 

“ Because I saw but now some two or three 
hundred men, coming from the side of Blangy, 
run down by the willows there, and disappear in 
the ditch.” 

“God’s retribution!” said the elder monk, 
gravely. “Had not the soldieiy driven out the 
peasantry, there would have been men to bear 
the news of the ambush.” 

“ Think you it is an ambush, then ?” asked the 
younger monk. 

“ Beyond doubt,” replied the other; “and he 
who would do a good service to the army of 
France would mount yon horse, ride down to- 
ward Azincourt, and carry the tidings to the 
constable.” 

As he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon their lay 
companion, who seemed a little uneasy under 
their gaze. He fidgeted, pulled the points of 
his doublet, and then said, sturdily, “ Well, I can 
not go. I must stay with the horses.” 

“ Are you a coward?” asked the elder monk, 
in a low, bitter tone. 

“Yes,” replied the man, nonchalantly. “I 
am a desperate coward — have been so all ipy life. 
I have a reverent regard for my own? skih^ and 
no fondness for carving that of other people'. If 
men have a peculiar fancy for poking holes in each 
other’s bodies, I do not quarrel with them for it. 
Indeed, I do not quarrel with any one for any 
thing ; but it is not my taste ; it is not my trade. 
Why should I make eyelet-holes in nature’s jer- 
kin, or have myself bored through and through, 
like a piece of timber under an auger?” 

“ Well, my son, wilt thou let me have a horse, 
that I may ride down and tell the constable?” 
asked the shorter of bis two companions. 

“ There is hardly time,” said the elder monk. 
“ See, here comes a larger body of archers from' 
the side of Blangy, and I can catch lance heads 
and banners rising up by Azincourt. The bloody 
work will soon begin,” 


AGJNES SOREL. 


89 


‘ I would fain try, at all events,” cried the oth- 
er. “ Man, wilt thou let me have a horse ? I 
will bring him back to thee in half an hour, if 
ever I come back alive myself.” 

“Take him, take him,” answered the other. 
“ l am not the man to stop you. How could I 
resist two monks and three horses. Not the des- 
trier — not the battle-horse. That is my lord’s. 
Here, take the page’s. Let me help thee on, 
father. Thou art so fat in the nether end that 
thou wilt never get up without a ladder. One 
time I was as bad a horseman as thyself, and so 
I have compassion on thy foibles. Have thou 
some upon mine.” 

The monk was soon settled in the saddle, and 
away he went down the hill, showing himself a 
better horseman, when once mounted, than the 
other had given him credit for. 

As soon as he was gone, the elder monk fixed 
his eyes once more upon his companion, and said, 
in a low voice, “ Have I not seen thee some- 
where before?” 

“ I can’t tell,” answered the other. “ I have 
seen you, I fancy ; but if so, you gave no sign 
of seeing me, either by word or look. However, 
I am Martin Grille, the valet of the good Baron 
de Brecy. Pezdiaps that may give your memoiy 
a step to climb upon.” 

“ It needs no step,” answered the other. “I 
am all memory. Would to God I were not.” 

“ Ay, now you look more as you did then, 
though not half so mad either,” said Martin 
Grille. “You are older, too, and your cowl 
makes a difference.” 

“ And there is a difference,” replied the monk, 
in a tone of deep sadness. “ Penitence and 
prayer, remorse and anguish — sated revenge, 
perhaps — a thirst assuaged — a thirst such as no 
desert traveler ever knew, quenched in blood 
and tears ; all these have changed me. The fire 
has gone out. I am nothing but the ashes of my 
former self.” 

“ Rather hot ashes, even yet,” answered Mar- 
tin Grille, “ if I may judge by what you said 
about my cowardice just now. But look, look, 
good father. What will become of our fat broth- 
er there ? Why he is riding right before that 
strong body of lances coming up from Blan- 


gy- 

“ He does not see them,” answered the other, 
gravely. “ He may reach the constable, even 
yet ; for lo, now ! there comes the power of 
F’rance over the hill ; and England on lo meet 
her. By the holy lood! they make a gallant 
show, these great noblemen of France. Why, 
what a sea of archery and men-at-arms is here, 
with plumes and banners, lance and shield, and 
pennons numberless. I have seen many a strick- 
en fight, and never but at Poictiers saw fairer ar- 
ray than that.” 

“ Why, they will sweep the English from the 
face of the earth,” said Martin Grille. “ If that 
be all King Henry’s power, it is but a morsel for 
the maw of suth a monster as is coming down 


from Azincourt.” 

The monk turned toward him, and shook his 
head. “You know not these Englishmen,” he 
said, with a sigh. “ When brought to bay, they 
fight like wolves. I have heard my fath-'r tell 
of Crecjy ; and at Poictiers I was a page. <acn 
field we outnumbered them as here, and at Poic- 
tiers we might have had them on composition, 
had it pleased the kin^. But we forced them to 
fight, and fight they did, till the multitude fled 


before a handful, and order and discipline did 
what neither numbers nor courage could effect. 
Look you now, how skillfully this English king 
has chosen his place of battle, unassailable on 
either flank, showing a narrow front to his ene- 
my, so as to render numbers of no avail. God 
send that they may not prove destructive.” 

“ Ah, he is too late !” replied Martin Grille 
who had been watching the course of the other 
monk, who was riding straight toward the head 
of the ditch, where he had seen the archers con- 
ceal themselves. “ He is too late, I fear.” 

His exclamation was caused by sudden move- 
ments observable in both armies. The English 
force had been advancing slowly in three bodies, 
each looking but a handful as compared with the 
immense forces of France, but in firm and close 
array, with little of that ornament and decoration 
which gilds and smoothes the rugged reality of 
war ; but with many instruments of music play- 
ing martial airs, and seeming to speak of hope 
and confidence. 

The French, on the other hand, who had lain 
quiet all the morning, as if intending to wait the 
attack of the enemy, had just spread out upon 
the slope in face of Azincourt, divided likewise 
into three vast bodies, with their wings over- 
lapping, on either side, the flank of the English 
force. Splendid arms and glittering accoutre- 
ments made the whole line shine and sparkle; 
but not a sound was heard from among them, 
except now and then the shout of a commander. 
At the moment of Martin Grille’s exclamation, 
the advanced guard of the French had assumed 
a quicker pace, and were pouring down upon the 
English archery, as they marched up through a 
somewhat narrow space, inclosed between low 
thick copse, hedges, and swampy ground. This 
narrow field forked out gradually, becoming 
wider and wider toward the centre of the French 
host ; and the English had just reached what we 
may call the mouth of the fork, with nearly fif- 
teen thousand French men-at-arms, and* archers 
before them, under the command of the constable 
in person. Slowly and steadily the Englishmen 
marched on, till within half bow-shot of the 
French line, headed by old Sir Thomas of Er- 
pingham, who rode some twenty yards before 
the archery, with a page on either side, and 
nothing but a baton in his hand. When near 
enough to render every arrow certain of its mark, 
the old knight waved his truncheon in the air, 
and instantly the whole body of foot halted short. 
At the same moment, each man planted before 
him the spiked stake which he carried in his 
hand, and laid an arrow on the string of his bow. 
A dead silence prevailed along each line, un- 
broken except by the tramp of the advancing 
F rench. Sir Thomas of Erpingham looked along 
the line, from right to left, and then exclaimed, 
in a lotid, powerful voice, “ Now strike !” throw- 
ing his truncheon high into the air, and dis- 
mounting from his horse. Instantly, from the 
ditch on the left flank of the French, rose up the 
concealed archers, with bows already drawn; 
and well might Martin Grille exclaim that the 
monk was too late. The next instant, from one 
end of the English line to the other, ran the tre- 
mendous cheer which has so often been the her- 
ald of victory over land and sea ; and the next, a 
flight of arrows as thick as hail poured right into 
the faces of the charging enemy. Knights and 
squires, and men-at-arms bowed their heads to 
the saddle-bow to avoid the shafts; but on they 


90 


AGNES SOREL. 


still rushed, each man directing his borse straight 
against the narrow front of the English, and press- 
ing closer and closer together, so as to present 
one compact mass, upon which each arrow told. 
Nor did that fatal flight cease for an instant. 
Hardly was one shaft delivered before another 
was upon the string, and, mad with pain, the 
horses of the French cavalry reared and plunged 
amon^ the crowd, creating as much destruction 
and disarray as even the missiles of their foe. 

All then became a scene of strange confusion 
to the eyes of Martin Grille. The two opposing 
forces seemed mingled together. The English, 
he thought, were forced back, but their order 
seemed firmer than that of the French line, 
where all was struggling and disarray. Here 
and there a small space in one part of the field 
would become comparatively clear, and then he 
would see a knight or squire dragged from his 
horse, and an archer driving the point of his 
sword between the bars of his helmet. The fig- 
ure of the monk was no longer to be discerned, for 
he had long been enveloped in the various masses 
oflight cavalry and camp-followers which whirled 
around the wings of the French army — of little 
or no service in the battle to those whom they 
served, and only formidable to an enemy in case 
of his defeat. 

The monk, who stood beside Martin Grille, 
remained profoundly silent, though his compan- 
ion often turned his eye toward him with an in- 
quiring look, as if he would fain have asked, 
“ How, think you, goes the strife ?” But, though 
no words were uttered, many were the emotions 
which passed over his countenance. At first all 
was calm, although there was a straining of the 
eye beneath the bent brow, like that of the eagle 
gazing down from its rocky eyrie on the prey 
moving across the plain below. Then came a 
glance of triumph, as some two or three hundred 
of the French men-at-arms dashed on before their 
companions, and hurled themselves upon the 
English line, in the vain effort to break the firm 
array of the archery. But when he saw the 
troops mingling together, and the heavy pressure 
of the French chivalry one upon the other, each 
impeding his neighbor, and leaving no room for 
any one but those in the front rank to strike a 
blow, his brow grew dark, his eye anxious, and his 
lip quivered. For a moment more, he continued 
silent ; but then, when he saw the English ar- 
rows dropping among the ranks of his country- 
men, the horses rearing and falling with their 
riders, to be trampled under the feet of those 
who pressed around — some, maddened with pain, 
tearing through all that opposed them, and car- 
rying terror and confusion into the main body 
behind — some urged by fearful riders at the full 
gallop from a field which they fancied lost, be- 
cause it was not instantly won, he could bear no 
more, but exclaimed, sharply and sternly, “ They 
will lose the day !” 

“ But all that vast number coming down the 
hill have not yet struck a stroke,” cried Martin 
Grille. 

“Where can they stiuke?” said the monk, 
sternly. “ W ere the field cleared of their friends, 
they might yet do something with their foes. 
See, the banner of Alen^on is down, and where 
is that of Brabant ? I see it no more.” 

He gazed for a moment more, and then ex- 
claimed, “On my life! they are flying — flying 
right into the centre of the main battle, to carry 
the infection of their fear with them !” 


As he spoke, two or three horsemen, in mad 
haste, galloped up the hill directly toward them, 
and Martin Grille sprang to the side of the horses, 
unfastened one of them, and put his foot in the ' 
stirrup. 

“ Fool ! they will not hurt thee,” said the monk . 

“ ’Tis their own lives they seek to save and, 
stretching out his arms across the path by which 
the men-at-arms were coming, he exclaimed, 
fiercely, “ Cowards — cowards ! back to the bat 
tie for very shame !” 

But they galloped on past him, one wfth an 
arrow through his shoulder, and one with the 
crest of his casque completely shorn off. The 
third struck a blow with a mace at the monk as 
he passed, but it narrowly missed him ; and on 
he too rode, with a bitter curse upon his lips. 

By this time it was no longer doubtful which 
way the strife would go between the advance- 
guard of the F rench and that of the English army. 
The former was all in disarray, and parties scat- 
tering away from it every instant, while the latter 
was advancing steadily, supported by a large body 
of pikes and bill-men, who nov/ appeared in 
steady order from behind some of the tall trees 
of the wood. Just then, through the bushes 
which lay scattered over the bottom of the slope, 
a group was seen coming up the hill, so slowly 
that their progress could hardly be called flight. 
At first neither Martin Grille nor the monk could 
clearly perceive what they were doing, for the 
branches, covered with thin, dry October leaves, 
partly intercepted the view. Soon, however, they 
emerged upon more open ground, and three or 
four men on foot appeared, closely surrounding 
a caparisoned horse, which one of them led by 
the bridle, while another, walking by the stirrup, 
seemed to have his arm around the waist of the 
rider. An instant after, a mounted man in a 
gray gown appeared from among the bushes, 
paused by the side of the little party, and was 
seen pointing upward toward the hill. 

“ Brother Albert and a wounded knight,” 
said the monk, taking a step or two forward. 

“ Good Lord ! I hope it is not my young mas- 
ter,” cried Martin Grille, clasping his hands to- 
gether. “ Oh, if he would but stay at home and 
keep quiet ! I am sure his mother would bless 
the day.” 

The monk hardly listened to him, for he was 
gazing with an eager and anxious look upon the 
group below ; then, suddenly turning to the var- 
let, he asked, in a sharp, quick tone, “ Has thy 
young lord any children?” 

“ None of his own,” answered Martin Grille; 
“but one whom he has adopted — a fairy little 
creature, as beautiful as a sunbeam, whom they 
call Agnes. He could not love her better were 
she his own.” 

“ God will bless him yet,” said the monk ; and 
then added, sharply, “ Why stand you here ? It 
is your lord ; go down and help.” And he him- 
self hurried down the slope to meet the advanc- 
ing party. 

With his casque cleft open by an ax, an arrow 
through his right arm, a spear-hole in his cuirass, 
and the blood dropping over his coat of arms, 
Jean Charost, supported by one of his retainer, 
on whose shoulder his head rested, was borne 
slowly up the hill. His face could not be seen, 
for his visor was closed, but there was an ex- 
pression of deep sadness on the faces of the two 
or three men who surrounded him, which showed 
that they thought the worst had befallen. 


AGNES SOREL. 


91 


“ Is he dead ?” asked the old monk, looking at 
the man v/ho led the horse. 

“ I can’t tell, father,” replied the soldier, gruff- 
ly. “He has not spoken since we got' him out 
of the fray. Here is one who has done his duty, 
however. Oh, if they had all fought as he did !” 

“ I think he is not dead,” said the other monk, 
riding up. “ You see his hand is still clasped 
upon the rein, and once, I thought, he tried to 
raise his head.” 

“ Bear him on — bear him on behind the trees,” 
cried the older man, “ and get the horses out of 
sight. He is not dead — his hand moves. How 
goes it, my son? How goes it? Be of good 
cheer.” 

A low groan was the only reply ; but that was 
sign sufficient that life was not extinct, and Jean 
C barest was carried gently forward to a spot be- 
hind the trees, well concealed from the field of 
battle. The old monk, before he followed, paus- 
ed to take one more look at the bloody plain of 
Azincourt. By this time, the main body of the 
F rench army was in as great disorder as the ad- 
vanced-guard, while the English forces were 
making way steadily with the royal banner float- 
ing in the air. 

“ All is lost,” murmured the monk. “ God 
help them! they have cast away a great vic- 
tory.” 

When he reached the little spot to which Jean 
Charost had been carried, the men were lifting 
him gently from his horse, and laying him down 
on the dry autumnal grass. • His casque was soon 
removed; but his eyes were closed, and his 
breathing was slow and uneven. There was a 
deep cut upon his head ; but that which seemed 
robbing him of life was the lance wound in his 
chest, and, with hurried hands, the two monks 
unclasped the cuirass and back-piece, and applied 
themselves to stanch the blood. 

“ It has gone very near his heart,” said the 
elder monk. 

“ No, no,” replied the other ; “ it is too far to 
the side. You understand fighting better than I, 
Brother Albert, but I know more surgery than 
you. Here, hold your hand firmly here, one of 
you men, and give me up that scarf. Some one 
run down to the brook and get water. Take 
his bassinet — take his bassinet. We must call 
him out of this swoon before it is too late.” 

Martin Grille seized up his master’s casque, 
and impulsively ran away toward the brook, 
which took its rise about two thirds of the way 
down the hill. When he came in sight of the 
battle-field, however, he stopped suddenly short, 
with all his old terrors rushing upon him ; but 
the next instant love for his young lord overcame 
all other sensations, and he plunged desperately 
down the slope, and filled the bassinet at the 
fountain. 

“ Help me, Martin ! help me !” said a voice 
near ; and looking up, he saw the young page, 
who had followed his lord down the hill. 

“ Here, boy, come along,” cried Martin Grille. 
“ Wh^t, are you hurt, you young fool ?” 

“ Yes, sorely,” replied the boy. “ While try- 
ing to cover the baron, the first time he was 
thrown from his horse, they hacked me with 
their swords. But I shall never see him again ; 
he is dead now.” 

“ Give me yo;ir hand — give me your hand,” 
cried Martin Grille. “ He is not dead ; so take 
good heart. But I must hurry back with this wa- 
ter ; so put forth what strength you have left.” 


Dragging the page along with one hand, and 
holding the bassinet in the other, Martin contrived 
to climb the hill again, and reach the spot where 
De Brecy lay. The younger monk immediately 
took a handful of the water, and dashed it in the 
wounded man’s face. A shudder passed over 
him, and then he opened his eyes and looked 
faintly round. 

“ Now some drops of this sovereign balsam,” 
said the younger monk, taking a vial from his 
pocket. “ Open your lips, my son, and let me 
drop it in.” 

He had to repeat his words before the wound- 
ed man comprehended them; but when the 
drops had been administered, a great change 
took place very rapidly. The light came back 
into Jean Charost’s eyes, and he said, though 
I’aintly, “ Where am I ? Who has won ?” 

“ How goes it, my son — ^how goes it ?” asked 
the elder monk, bending over him, with his cowl 
thrown back. 

“ But feebly, father,” answered Jean Charost. 
“ Hah ! is that you ?” 

“ Even so,” answered the monk. “ But cheer 
up ; you shall not die. We will take you to our 
priory of St. George of Hesdin, and soon give you 
health again.” 

“ Alas !” said Jean Charost, raising his hand 
feebly, and letting it drop again, “I have no 
strength to move. But how goes the battle ? 
If France have lost, let me lie here and die.” 

“ We can not tell,” answered the younger 
monk. “ The battle still rages fiercely. Here, 
hold this crucifix in your hand, and let me ex- 
amine the wound. ’Tis not bleeding so fast,” he 
continued. “Take some more of these drops; 
they will give you strength again.” 

“Ah, Perot; poor boy!” said Jean Charost, 
suffering his eyes to glance feebly round till they 
rested upon the page, who was leaning against a 
tree. “ Attend to him, good father. He must 
be wounded sorely. He saved my life when 
first I was dashed down by that blow upon mv 
head.” 

“ Take this first yourself,” rejoined the monk, 
“ or the master will go where the page will not 
like to follow.” 

Jean Charost made no resistance; and the 
monk then turned to the young boy, examined 
and bound up his wounds, and administered to 
him likewise some of the elixir in which he 
seemed to put so much faith. Nor did it seem 
undeserving of his good opinion ; for again the 
effect upon Jean Charost was very great, and he 
said, in a stronger voice, “ Methinks I shall live.” 

“ Can we not contrive to make some litter?” 
said the elder monk, looking to the men who 
had aided their young lord up the hill. 

“We will try,” said one of them; and taking 
an ax which hung upon his shoulder, he began 
to cut down some of the sapling trees. Ere the 
materials were collected, however, to make a 
litter, there came a sound of horses feet going at 
a slow trot, and an instant after a small party of 
horse appeared. 

“ Ha ! who have we here ?” cried the man at 
their head. “ A French knight, wounded ! God 
save you, sir. I trust you will do well ; but you 
must surrender, rescue or no rescue, and give 
your faith thereon.” 

As he spoke, he dismounted and approached 
the little group, holding out his hand to Jean 
Charost. 

“ There is no help for it,” answered the wound- 


AGNES SOREL. 


9i> 

ed man, giving him his hand. Rescue or no 
rescue, I do surrender.” 

Your name is the next thing,” replied the 
English officer. 

“ Jean Charost, Baron de Brecy,” replied the 
young man. “ I pray you tell me how goes the 
battle ?” 

“ It is over, sir,” answered the Englishman. 
“ God has been pleased to bless our arms. Your 
men will surrender, of course.” 

With them, too, there was no help for it, as 
there were some twenty or thirty spears around 
them ; and when they had given their pledge, 
the officer, an elderly man, turned again to Jean 
Charost, saying, in a kindly tone, “You are bad- 
ly hurt, sir, and I am sure have .done your devoir 
right knightly for your king and country. I can 
not stay to tend you ; but these good fathers will 
have gentle care of you, I am sure. When you 
are well, inquire for the Lord Willoughby. You 
will not find him hard to deal with. The parole 
of a gentleman with such wounds as these is 
worth prison bars of three inch thickness ;” and 
tlius saying, he remounted his horse and rode 
away. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A FEW brief glimpses, if you please, dear read- 
er — quiet, and calm, and cool, like the early sun- 
shine of a clear autumn day — a few brief glimpses, 
to throw some light upon a lapse of several years. 

It may be asked why are not the events of 
those years recorded ? Why are we not carried 
through the details of a history in which the 
writer, at least, must have some interest? In 
every life, as in every country which one passes 
through, there come spots of dull monotony, 
where the waters stagnate on the heavy flats, and 
to linger among them is dangerous to active ex- 
istence. I say, in every life there are these flats 
at some period or another ; for I can recall none 
in memory or in history, where they have not 
been found — none where all has been mountain 
and valley. 

Take the most active life that ever was, that 
of Napoleon Bonaparte; carry him from the 
military school to the command of armies; go 
with him along his cometrlike career, from glory 
to glory up to the zenith of his power, and then 
on his course down to the horizon with fierce 
rapidity. You come to the rock in the Atlantic, 
and the dull lapse of impotence and captivity at 
last ! 

In a cell, in the small priory of St. George of 
Hesdin, and on the pallet bed of one of the monks, 
lay a young gentleman pale and wan, but still 
with the light of reviving life in his eyes. By 
his side was seated a tall, thin old man, or if not 
very old in years, old in the experience of sor- 
rows. 

'Tis a strange thing, this life, and all connected 
with it — time, and joy, and grief, and fear, and 
hope, and appetite, and satiety! Very, very 
strange! The wise Eastern people have said 
that at the root of the Tree of Life lie two worms 
continually preying on it: the one black, the 
other white. But alas, alas! there is many an- 
other maggot, piercing the bark, eating into the 
fare, drying up the sap, bringing on decay and 
de.struction. I have named a few of them. 

One of the most blessed conceptions of the soul 


is, that in its immortality none of these things 
can touch it. 

He seemed an old man, though probably he , 
had not yet seen near sixty years of age; but 
there were upon his face many harsh lines — not 
such as are drawn by hard carking cares and 
petty anxieties — not such as are imprinted on the 
face by the claws of grasping, mercenary selfish- 
ness ; but the deep strong brands of burning pas- 
sions, fierce griefs, fierce joys, and strong unruly 
thoughts. Yet the eye was subdued. There 
was not the light in it that had once been there 
— the wild, eager light, too intense to be fully 
sane. There was sadness enough, but little fire. 

It would seem that the two — they were the 
only tenants of the cell — had been talking for 
some time, and that one of those pauses had taken 
place in which each man continues for himself 
the train of thought suggested by what has gone 
before. The old man looked down upon the 
ground, with his shaggy eyebrows overhanging 
his eyes. The young man looked up, as if catch- 
ing inspiration from above. It was Hope and 
Memory. At length the old man spoke. 

“ When one looks back,” he said, “ upon the 
path of life, we lose in the mistiness of the dis- 
tance a thousand objects which have influenced 
its course. W e see it turn hither and thither, and 
wonder that we took not a course more direct 
to our end. We perceive that we have gone far 
out of the way ; but the obstacles are not seen that 
were, or seemed insurmountable — the stream, 
too deep to be forded — the rock, too high to be 
scaled — the thicket, too dense to be penetrated ; 
and the mists and darkness too — the mists and 
darkness of the mind, forever blinding us to the 
right way. Oh, my son, my son, beware of the 
eyesight of passion ; for you know not how false 
and distorting it is. The things as plain as day 
become all dim and obscure, false lights glare 
around us, and nothing is real but our own sen- 
sations.” 

Jean Charost smiled. “ I have escaped as yet, 
father,” he said. “ It is time, indeed, that when 
I look back on some passages of my life — on the 
actions of other men, and on my own — I some- 
times wonder how I could view the things around 
me as I did at the time, and all seems to me as 
if I had been acting in a dream.” 

“Passion, passion,” said the monk — “the 
dream of passion !” 

“ Happily, I have had no cause to regret that I 
did not see more clearly,” replied Jean Charost; 

“ but let me turn to other matters, good father. 
There are many things that I would wish to ask 
you — many that are necessary for me to know.” 

“ Ask me nothing,” replied the monk, quickly ; 
then laying his hand upon Jean Charost’s arm, 
he said, in a low, stern voice, “ There is a space 
in memory on which I dare not tread. By strug- 
gle and by labor I have reached firm ground, 
and can stand upon the rock of my salvation; 
but behind me there is a gulf of madness— You 
would not drag me back into it, young man ?” 

“ God forbid,” replied Jean Charost. “ But 
yet—” 

The monk waved his hand; and an instant 
after, the door of the cell opened, and Martin 
Grille appeared, booted and spurred, with his 
dress covered with dust, and every sign about . 
him of long riding over parched and sandy roads. 

“Well Martin,” exclaimed the young man, as 
soon as he saw him, “ what says the Lord Wil- 
loughby ?” 


AGNES SOREL. 


93 


“ But little, and not pleasant,” replied Martin 
Grille. “ However, he has written. Here is his 
letter.” 

Jean Charost took the paper which the man 
held out to him, and tore it open eagerly ; but 
his face turned pale as he read, and he exclaimed, 
“ Fifteen thousand crowns for a baron’s ransom ! 
This is ruin.” 

“ I think he can not help himself,” said Martin 
Grille ; “for he seemed very much vexed when 
he wrote. Indeed, he told me that the ransoms 
had been fixed by higher power.” 

“Ay, ay! A mere excuse,” exclaimed Jean 
Charost. “ This greedy Englishman is resolved 
to make the most of the capture of a woimded 
man.” 

“Passion, my son, passion!” said the monk. 
“ What the good lord says is true, I do believe. 
’Tis the ambition and policy of his master, not 
his own greed. I have heard something of this, 
and feared the result. King Henry is resolved 
that all those who might serve F ranee best against 
him should either pay the expenses of his next 
campaign by their ransoms, or linger out their 
time in English prisons, while he goes forth to 
conquer France.” 

“ Shame be upon him,” cried Jean Charost. 

“ Wouldst thou not do the same wert thou the 
King of England?” asked the monk. 

Jean Charost mused for several minutes. 
Then there is naught for me but a prison,” he 
said, at length. “ I will not impoverish my poor 
mother, nor my sweet little Agnes. It has cost 
enough to furnish me forth for this fatal battle. 
Oh, mat Frenchmen had coolness as well as 
courage, discipline as well as activity ! Oh, that 
they had won the day : I would not have treated 
my prisoners so. Well, God’s will be done — I 
will cross the seas, and give myself up to cap- 
tivity. Let me have things for writing, Martin 
Grille.” 

“ Nay, my son, you are not fit,” said the monk. 
“It must be done,” answered Jean Charost. 

“ What matters it to any one if I die ? He can 
not coin my clay into golden pieces. I will not 
pay this ransom so long as my mother lives. Let 
me have ink and paper.” 

Jean Charost wrote ; but he was soon obliged 
to abandon the task, for he was still too feeble. 
The next day he wrote again, however, and two 
letters were accomplished. The one was sent 
oflf to his mother, the other to the Lord Wil- 
loughby. To the latter he received an answer 
courteous and kind, desiring him not to hurry 
his departure for England, but to wait till he was 
well able to bear the journey. There was one 
sentence somewhat confused in expression, in- 
tended to convey a regret that the ransom fixed 
upon prisoners of his rank was so high ; but Jean 
Cnarost was irritated, and threw the letter from 
him. 

The other letter conjured his mother to his side 
with all speed, and she brought his little Agnes 
with her; for she had a notion that the presence 
of the child would be balmy to him. 

Let us pass over her remonstrances, and how 
she urged him to sell all and pay his ransom. 
For her sake, he was firm. He would not im- 
poverish his mother ; and though there were bit- 
ter tears, he departed from his native land. 

Now let us change the scene. 

Between three and four years had passed since 
the field of Azincourt had received some of the 
best blood of France, and thinned the ranks of 


French chivalry. Every city, every village, al- 
most every family was full of trouble, and the 
place that was at one day in the hands of En- 
gland was another day in the hands of France, 
and a third in the hands of Burgundy. All reg- 
ular warfare might be said to have come to an 
end. Each powerful noble made war on his own 
hand, and linked himself by very slender ties to 
this faction or that. His enterprises were his 
own, though they were directed, in some degree, 
to the benefit of his party ; but if he owned in 
any one a right to command him, it was only 
with the reservation that he should obey or not 
as he pleased. Armed bands traversed the coun- 
try in every direction. Hardly a field between 
the Loire and the Somme was not at some time 
a scene of strife. None knew, when they sowed 
the ground, who would reap the harvest ; and the 
goods of the merchant were as often exposed to 
pillage as the crop of the husbandman. 

Yet it is extraordinary how soon the mind of 
man, and especially the gay, volatile mind of the 
Frenchman, accommodates itself to circumstan- 
ces. Here was a state almost intolerable, it would 
seem, to any but savages ; but yet, in France, the 
skillful cook plied his busy trade, and the reek- 
ing kitchen sent up fragrant fumes. The anherge, 
the cabaret, the gite, the repne, all the places of 
public entertainment, in short, were constantly 
filled with gay guests. The tailor’s needle was 
never more employed, and as much ornament as 
ever was bestowed upon fair forms which might 
be destined a few days after to meet with a 
bloody death. The village bells called people 
to prayer and praise as usual, and rang out mer- 
rily for the wedding, even when hostile spears 
were within sight of the steeple. 

Such was the state of the country, when, one 
day in the latter part of the summer of one thou- 
sand four hundred and nineteen, a young man, 
dressed in the garb of a monk, entered a small 
town near the city of Bourges. His feet were 
sandaled ; he carried the pilgrim staff in his hand, 
and he was evidently wayworn and fatigued. 
The greater part of the peasantry were in the 
fields ; and the street of the little place, running 
up the side of a small hill, lay almost solitary in 
the bright sunshine. The master of the gite, or 
small inn, however, was sitting at his own door, 
with an ancient companion, feeble and white- 
bearded, and they made some comments to one 
another upon the young stranger as he approach- 
ed, which were not very favorable to monks in 
general. 

“ Oh, he is going to the Gray Friar’s monastery, 
doubtless,” said the host to his companion, “ and 
doubtless they fare well there. He will have a 
jovial night of it after his journey, especially as 
this is Thursday.” 

“ Ay, that’s the time they always appoint for 
the women to come to confess,” said the other ; 
“and I dare say they talk over all the sins they 
hear pleasantly enough. See, he seems tending 
this way.” 

“Not he,” replied the landlord; “we have 
but little custom from the brethren, though they 
can pay well when they will. Upon my life, I 
believe he is coming hither ; but perhaps ’tis but 
to ask his way.” 

The stranger, however, did walk straight up 
to mine host of the inn, and instead of asking his 
way, inquired whether he could lodge there for 
the night. 

“ Assuredly, good father,” replied the land- 


94 


AGNES SOREL. 


lord, in a very altered tone ; “ this is a public 
giie, though the prices are rather higher than 
they used to be, because the country has been so 
run down.” 

'‘That matters not,” answered the stranger; 
“ when can I sup ?” 

“In an hour, father, supper will be on the 
table,” answered the host. “ Would you like to 
go and wash your feet ; they are mighty dusty ?” 

“Not yet,” replied the stranger; “if I knew 
where to place my wallet in safety, I would go 
on a little further to see the sun setting from the 
hill.” 

“ Come with me — come with me,” said the 
host ; “ I will show you your chamber, where 
you will have as good a bed as a baron could 
wish for, and a room, not much bigger than a 
cell, it is true ; but you will not mind that, for it 
is fresh and airy, and, moreover, it has a lock and 
key, which is more than many rooms have.” 

The stranger followed in silence, was admitted 
to his room, and laid down the wallet. Then, 
taking the key — almost as big as that of a church 
door of modem times — he issued forth from the 
inn again, and, saying he would be back soon, he 
walked on to the other end of the street, where 
it opened out through a low mud wall upon the 
brow of the hill upon which the town was built. 

When clear of all houses, with his foot upon 
the green turf, and the rocky descent below him, 
the young stranger crossed his arms upon his 
chest, and stood gazing upon the scene around 
with more of the air of a warrior than of a monk. 
He held his head high, and seemed to expand 
his chest to receive fully the evening breeze, 
looking like a fine horse when first turned forth 
from a close stable, snuffing the free air before he 
takes his wild, headlong career around the mead- 
ow. But the expression soon changed. Casting 
his eyes to the eastward, he just caught sight, 
from behind the shoulder of the hill, of the tow- 
ers and battlements of Bourges ; and a little fur- 
ther on, but more to the north, on the other side 
of the river, he perceived a wooded hill, with 
a large, square tower and some other buildings, 
crowning the summit. A look of deep melan- 
choly came upon his countenance. After gazing 
for several minutes, he turned his eyes toward 
the ground, and fell into a deep fit of thought, 
as if debating some important question with him- 
self. “ It will be a painful pleasure,” said he, 
at length; “but I will go, let it cost what it 
may.” 

Once more he gazed over the prospect all 
round, and then turning on his steps, he retraced 
his way back to the inn, where he found tlie 
landlord still seated at the door. 

“ Can you tell me,” he said, “if Messire Jacques 
CcEur is now in Bourges ?” 

“ No, that he is not, sir,” answered the land- 
lord, with great respect, dropping the title of 
father, which he had previously bestowed upon 
his guest, in favor of the gray gown; “he is 
away somewhere about Monterreau with his 
highness the dauphin.” 

“ That is unlucky,” said the other, just remark- 
ing, and no more, the landlord’s change of man- 
ner toward him, and the substitution of the words 
sir and father. 

“ Well, I will sup, and go on upon my way.” 

“ Had you not better sleep here, sir ?” asked 
the landlord, again avoiding the word father ; 

“ perhaps they are not prepared for you, and vou 
must have traveled far, I suppose.” 


The other held to his resolution, however, with 
out taking any outward notice of the great alter 
atiou in the man’s demeanor; but when he re 
tired to his chamber to wash his feet before sup- 
per, he found confirmation of a suspicion that the 
vaunted lock of his door had more keys than one. 
Nothing was abstracted, indeed, from his wallet; 
but the contents had been evidently examined 
carefully since he left the house. Small as was 
the amount of baggage it contained, there were 
several articles which bore the name of “Jean 
Charost de Brecy.” 

Night had fallen by the time that supper was 
over, and the stars shone out bright and clear 
when the young wanderer once more resumed 
his journey, and took his way direct toward the 
castle he had seen upon the hill. Onward he 
went at an unflagging pace, descended from the 
higher gi'ound into the valley, crossed the little 
river by its stone bridge, and approached the 
foot of the eminence where the tower stood. 
Large dogs bayed loudly as he came near the en- 
trance of the castle, and one or two men were 
seated under the arch of the barbican ; but .Jean 
Charost’s impatience had been growing with ev- 
ery step, and, without pausing to put any ques- 
tions or to ask permission, he passed the draw- 
bridge, crossed the little court, and mounted the 
steps leading into the great hall. One of the men 
had followed him from the barbican, but did not 
attempt to stop him. Two of the dogs ran by 
his side, looking up in his face, and a third gam- 
boled wildly before him, whining with a sort of 
anxious joy. The great hall was quite dark ; but 
he found his way across it easily enough, mount- 
ed a little flight of five steps, and opened the door 
just above. There were lights in that room, 
and Madame De Brecy was there seated em- 
broidering ; while little Agnes, now greatly ex- 
panded both in foi-m and beauty, sat beside his 
mother, sorting the various colored silks. His 
feet were shod with sandals; but his mother 
knew the tread. She started up and gazed at 
him. The instant after, her arms were round 
his neck, and Agnes was clinging to his hand 
and covering it with kisses. 

“ Welcome — welcome home, my son!” cried 
Madame De Brecy ; “ has this hard lord then re- 
lented ? We heard that you were ill — very ill ; 
and ere three days more had passed, Agnes and 
I would have set off to join you in England. We 
waited but for safe-conducts to depart.” 

“ I have been ill, dear mother,” replied the 
young man ; “ and that obtained me leave to re- 
turn for a time. But do not deceive yourself; I 
have not come back to stay. Indeed, so brief 
must be my absence from my prison, so hopeless 
is the errand on which I came, that I had doubts 
whethef I ought to pause even here to give you 
the pang of parting with me again. I have only 
obtained leave upon parole, to absent myself from 
London for three months, in order to seek a ran- 
som. My only hope is in Jacques Coeur; he, 
perhaps, may help us on easier terms than any 
one else will consent to. I find, however, that 
he is not in Bourges, and I must go on to-mor- 
row to Monterreau to seek him ; for well-nigh 
three weeks of my time is already expired ; ’tis 
a long journey from England hither on foot.” 

“ Ah, my poor son !” cried Madame De Brecy ; 

“ our fate has been a sad one, indeed. But yet, 
why should we complain? We share but the 
unhappy fate of France, and. Heaven knows, she 
has deserved chastisement, were it for nothin® 


AGNES SOREL. 


95 


else but the bloody and unchristian feuds which 
have brought this evil upon her.” 

“ Let us hope yet, mother — let us hope yet,” 
said Jean Charost. “ The very feeling of being 
once more at home — in this dear home, where 
so many sunny days have passed — rekindles the 
nearly extinguished fire, and makes me hope 
again, in despite of probability.” 

“ But why did you come on foot, dear Jean?” 
cried Agnes, clinging to liim. “ It was not for 
want of money, was it? Oh, I would gladly 
have sold all those pretty things you gave me 
long ago, to have bought a horse for you, though 
our dear mother says we must save every thing 
we can in order to pay your ransom.” 

“ No, dear child, no,” replied Jean Charost. 

There were other reasons for my coming on 
foot. I could not come with my lance in my 
hand, and my pennon and my band behind me ; 
and for a solitary traveler, well dressed, and 
mounted on a good horse, it is dangerous to cross 
the country between Harfleur and Bourges. But 
it is vain to think of saving my ransom. My only 
hope is to get it diminished, and then to obtain 
the means of paying it — both through Jacques 
CcBur.” 

“ Diminished !” said Madame De Brecy, eager- 
ly. “ Is there a chance of that ?” 

Her son explained to her that a conference had 
already taken place between the dau{)hin and 
the Duke of Burgundy, with a view to arrange 
the terms of peace. “ Jacques Coeur,” he said, 
“ has great influence with our own royal prince, 
and I believe that I myself stand not ill with his 
highness of Burgundy, although, Heaven knows, 
I have never sought his favor. If the dauphin 
will condescend — as perhaps he ought — to make 
the liberation, upon moderate ransom, of several 
gentlemen taken at Azincourt a stipulation in the 
treaty, I think I have a fair claim to be among 

them. There is another interview, I find, to take 
place in a few days, and I must not miss the op- 
portunity. I bear his highness letters from his 
cousin the young Duke of Orleans, and several 
other gentlemen of high repute. Let us hope 

then, my mother, at least till hope proves vain. 
Here will I rest to-night, and speed onward 
again to-morrow. Perhaps I may lose my labor, 
and have to travel back — to England and to cap- 
tivity.” 

“ Then we will go with you, Jean,” said Ma- 
dame De Brecy. “ You shall stay no more alone 
in a prison.” 

Yes, yes, let us go with you,” cried Agnes, 
eagerly, drowning Jean Charost’s reply. “We 
can all be as happy there as here. 'It is not the 
walls, or the earth, that make a cheerful home. 
It is the spirits that are in it.” 

“ Thou art a young philosopher,” said Jean 
Charost, with a smile ; “but we will see.” 

The next morning Jean Charost was upon his 
way toward Monterreau, still dressed in his 
monkish garb — for the proverb proved true in his 
case — but now mounted on an old mule, the very 
beast that had carried the Duke of Orleans on the 
night of his assassination. It had been given to 
him by the duchess when last he saw her, and 
when she felt the hand of death pressing heavily 
upon her. 

The journey was too much for one day — twen- 
ty-three leagues, as they counted them in those 
days, when leagues were leagues, and they had 
kings in France — but Jean Charost resolved to 
push on as fast as possible ; and by night of the 


second day he had reached the small town of 
Moret, whence a short morning’s ride would 
bring him to Monterreau. 

It was dark when he arrived; but the small 
village was full of armed men, and round the 
doors of many of the houses were assembled gay 
groups, some seated on the ground, some on 
benches, some on empty barrels, laughing, drink- 
ing, and singing, with all the careless merriment 
of soldiery in an hour of peace. Lights burned 
in the windows ; lanterns, and sometimes torch- 
es, were out at the doors, and the yellow harvest- 
moon was rolling along the sky, and shedding 
from her golden chariot-wheels a glorious flood 
of light. 

Doubtless there was a good deal of ribaldry in 
the words — doubtless there was a good deal of 
licentiousness in the hearts of those around ; but 
yet there was a joyous exuberance of life — a 
careless, happy, thoughtless confidence — an in- 
I lections merriment, that was difficult to resist. 

I The ringing laughter, the light song, the gay jest, 
the cheerful faces, all seemed to ask Jean Cha- 
rost, as he passed along, “ Why should you take 
thought for the morrow, when you can never tell 
I that a morrow will be yours ? Why should you 
i have care for the future, when the future is dis- 
; posed of by hands you can not see ? Rejoice ! 

I rejoice in the present day ! Eat, drink, and be 
i merry, for to-morrow you die.” 

Many a jest assailed the friar and his mule as 
they passed along; but Jean Charost was in no 
mood to suffer a jest to annoy him. His hopes 
had increased as he came near the spot where 
they were to be fulfilled or extinguished, and the 
scene around him was certainly not calculated to 
bid them depart too soon. 

At the door of a small inn, he stopped, and 
asked if he could find entertainment ; but the 
landlord rolled out a fat laugh, and told him, 
No, not if he could make himself as small as the 
constable’s dwarf. “We are all as full here,’ 
he said, “ as we can hold, and running over, with 
the dauphin’s men-at-arms. I doubt whether 
you will find a quarter of a bed in the whole 
place. At the great gife there — that place which 
looks so dull and melancholy — ^you will have a 
better chance than any where else; for Maitre 
Langrin has raised his prices above the tax, be- 
cause he expects the lords and commanders to 
stay there ; but I don’t think they will prefer his 
bad wine to my good, and pay more for it.” 
Thither, however, Jean Charost turned his mule ; 
but here the answer was much the same as be- 
fore, combined with the saucy intimation that 
they did not want any monks at that house ; and 
the young gentleman was turning away, think- 
ing, with some anxiety, how he could feed and 
stable his beast, when he saw a man, dressed 
apparently as a superior officer, examining some- 
what closely the mule, which he had left tied to 
the tall post before the inn. He was not fully 
armed, although he had a haubergeon on; and 
his head was only covered with a plumed cap. 
Though tall and well formed, he stooped a little ; 
and as he drew back a step or two when the 
young gentleman approached <^o mount, he seem- 
ed to move with some difficulty, and limped as 
he walked. 

Jean Charost put his foot into the stirrup, 
mounted, and was about to ride away, when the 
stranger called to him, somewhat roughly, say- 
ing, “ Where got you that mule, monk?” 

“ It was a gift,” replied Jean Charost, in a 


96 


AGNES SOREL. 


quiet tone, turning his face full toward the 
speaker. 

“ A gift — not from a palmer to a convent,” 
cried the other, “ but from a lady to a soldier !” 
and in a moment after his arms were thrown 
round Jean Charost,. while he exclaimed, with a 
laugh, Why, don’t you know me, De Brecy ? 

I am not so much metamorphosed as you, in all 
your monkery. In Heaven’s name, what are 
you doing in this garb, and in this place ? Where 
do you come from ? What are you doing ? Some 
said you were killed at Azincourt. One man 
swore to me he saw you die. Another told me 
you were a prisoner in England ; and I have al- 
ways supposed the latter was the case, for I have 
found in my own case how difficult it is to get 
killed. They have nearly chopped me to mince- 
meat, but here I am — what is left of me, that is 
to say.” 

The young gentleman gave his old companion 
all the information he desired ; telling him, more- 
over, not without some hopes of assistance, the 
difficulties under which he just then labored. 

“ Oh, come with me, come with me,” said 
Juvenel de Royans. “ I am captain of a compa- 
ny of horse archers, and every one bows down 
in reverence to me here. You shall have half 
of my room, if they will give you none other 
and, leading him back into the inn, he called 
loudly for the host. 

“ Here, Master Langrin,” he exclaimed, when 
the uncivil functionary whom Jean Charost had 
before seen made his appearance again, “this 
gentleman is a friend of mine. He must have 
accommodation — there, I know what you would 
say. You must make it, if you have not got it.” 

“ I took the gentleman for a monk, sir,” said 
the host, with all humility. 

“A monk!” cried De Royans. “ The gown 
does not make the monk. Where were your 
eyes? I will answer for it, he has got a steel 
coat on under that gown. But he must have 
some rooms, at all events.” 

“ There are none empty but those reserved for 
Madame De Giac,” replied the landlord ; “ and all 
the men are obliged to sleep four or five in a bed.” 

“ Well, put him in Madame De Giac’s rooms,” 
cried De Royans, with a laugh. “ I dare say 
neither party will object to the arrangement. 
At all events, you must find him some place ; I 
insist upon it. I will quarter all my archers upon 
you, if you don’t ; eat out ail you have got in the 
house, and drink up all your wine. Take ten 
minutes to consider of it, and then come and tell 
me, in the den where you have put me. Bid 
some of my people look to Monsieur De Brecy’s 
mule, and look to it well ; for, before it carried 
him, it carried as noble a prince as France has 
seen, or ever will see. Come, old friend, I will 
show you the way.” 

When Jean Charost was seated in the room of 
Juvenel de Royans, a lamp lighted, and his com- 
panion stretched out at ease, partly on his bed 
and partly on a settle, the latter assumed a graver 
tone, and De Brecy perceived with pain that he 
was both depressed in mind and sadly shattered 
in body. Twelve years of almost incessant cam- 
paigning had broken down his strength, and 
many wounds received had left him a suffering 
and enfeebled m^n. 

“ God help me I” he said. I tiy to bear up i 
well, De Brecy, and can not make up my mind | 
to quit the old trade. I must die in harness, 1 j 
suppose ; but I believe what I ought to do would j 


be to betake me to my castle by the Garonne, 
adopt my sister’s son — her husband fell at Azin- 
court — and feed upon bouillons and Medoc wine 
for the rest of my life. I am never without some 
ache. But now tell me what are your plans; 
for, as I am constantly on the spot, I can give you 
a map of the whole country.” 

Jean Charost explained to him frankly h(i pre- 
cise situation, and De Royans thought over it for 
some time in silence. 

“You must make powerful friends,” he said, 
at length. “ Don’t you know Madame De Giac ? 
Every one knows that, on that fatal night, you 
were sent to her by the duke our lord, and, if 
so, she must be under some obligations to you 
for your discretion.” 

“ I have remarked, De Royans,” replied the 
other, “ that ladies generally hate those who have 
the power to.be discreet.” 

“ That could be soon seen,” said De Royans- 
“ We can test it readily.” 

“ I see no use,” replied De Brecy. “ She is 
the avowed mistress of the Duke of Burgundy, 
and of him I am going to ask no favor.” 

“ She may be his avowed mistress, and no less 
a dear friend of his highness the dauphin,” an- 
swered De Royans. “ She was the duke’s avowed 
mistress, and no less a dear friend of his highness 
of Orleans.” 

Jean Charost gave a shudder. “ Heaven for- 
give me,” he said, “ if I lack charity. But there 
is a dark suspicion in my mind, De Royans, which 
would make me sooner seek a boon of the devil 
than of that woman.” 

“ Ha !” said De Royans, raising himself partly 
from the bed. “ If I thought that — but no mat- 
ter, no matter. We will talk of her no more.” 

“ What does she here ?” asked Jean Charost. 

“ I will tell you all about it,” replied the other. 

“ A conference took place some time ago in re- 
gard to the general pacification of the kingdom. 
The Duke of Burgundy promised great things, 
which he has never performed, nor ever will; 
and his highness the dauphin has summoned him 
to another conference here at Monterreau, hard 
by. The duke has hesitated for more than a 
month. Sometimes he would come, sometimes 
he would not. Often urged that the dauphin 
himself should come to Troyes, where he lay 
with his forces, and with the poor king and queen. 
The dauphin said nay, but promised all security 
if he would come hither. John-without-Fear has 
shown himself John-with-great-Fear, however, 
well considering that there ai’e twenty thousand 
men with his prince in and around Monterreau. 
Nothing would serve him but he must have the 
castle given up to him for security; and, accord- 
ingly, I and my men, who kept it for his high- 
ness the dauphin, were turned out, to make way 
for — who do you think ?” 

“ Nay, I can not tell,” replied Jean Charost. 

“ Perhaps James de la Ligne, master of the cross- 
bow men, who I hear is with the duke.” 

“ Nothing of the kind,” answered De Royans. 

“ For good Madame De Giac, her household and 
servants — not an armed man among them. She 
arrives here to-night ; goes on early to-morrow ; 
and the duke himself, they say, will arrive in the 
afternoon. He came as far as Bray sur Seine 
five or six days ago ; but there he stopped and 
hesitated once more ; and one can not tell whoth 
er he will come after all or not. If he does, he 
will come well accompanied ; for it is clear that 
his heart fails him.” 


AGNES SOREL. 


97 


Is there any reason for his fear, except that 
general doubt of all men which the wicked have 
trom the pictures in their own heart?” asked 
Jean Charost. 

Juvenel de Royans raised himself completely, 
and sat upon the edge of the bed, bending slightly 
forward, and speaking in a lower tone. “I can 
not tell,” he said, slowly and thoughtfully; “ but 
there is a general feeling abroad — no one can tell 
why — that if to-morrow’s interview does take 
place something extraordinary will happen. It 
is all vague and confused — no one knows what 
he expects, but every one expects something. 
We have no orders for extraordinary preparation. 
The side of the castle next to the fields is to be 
left quite free and open for the duke and his peo- 
ple to come and go at their pleasure, and every 
thing seems to indicate that his highness medi- 
tates nothing but peaceful conference. Yet I 
know that, as soon as I hear the duke is in the 
Castle of Monterreau, I will have every man in 
the saddle, and every horse out of the stable, in 
order to act as may be needed.” 

“ But you must have some reasons for such ap- 
prehensions,” said Jean Charost. 

“ None — none, upon my word,” replied Juve- 
nel de Royans. “ The only way I can account 
for the general feeling is, that every man of our 
faction knows that John of Burgundy is an ene- 
my to F ranee ; that his ambition is the great ob- 
stacle to the union of all Frenchmen against our 
English adversaries; and that it would be good 
for the whole country if he were dead or in pris- 
on. Perhaps what every one wishes, every one 
thinks may happen. But now, De Brecy, once 
more to your own affairs. Your plan is a good 
one. His highness, in consenting to any peace, 
ought to stipulate for the liberation of his friends 
upon a moderate ransom — and yours is certainly 
unreasonable. But how to get at him is the ques- 
tion, in order to insure that your name may be 
among those stipulated. You will not use Ma- 
dame De Giac.” 

“ Nay, but I have two means of access,” an- 
swered Jean Charost. “ I have a letter for his 
highness from the young Duke of Orleans, my 
fellow-prisoner; and I hear that my good friend 
Jacques Coeur has very great influence with the 
royal prince.” 

Juvenel de Royans mused before he answered. 

The letter may not do what you want,” he 
said, at length ; “ for you must see the prince be- 
fore this interview takes place ; and when you 
present the letter, a long-distant day may be ap- 
pointed for your audience. Jacques Coeur can 
doubtless procure your admission at once, if he 
be in Monterreau. He was there, certainly, three 
days ago, and supplied his highness liberally, 
they say, to his great joy ; for he was well-nigh 
penniless. But the rumor ran that he was to 
depart for Italy yesterday.” 

“ Then the case is hopeless,” said Jean Cha- 
rost, with a sigh. 

A silence of some minutes succeeded ; but then 
De Royans looked up with a smile. “ Not hope- 
less,” he said, “ not hopeless. I have just thought 
of a way more sure than any other. First, I will 
give you a letter to my friend and cousin Tanne- 
guy ciu Chdtel, who is high in the dauphin’s con- 
fidence. There, however, you might be put off ; 
but there is another means in your own hand. 
Do you remember Mademoiselle De St. Geran — 
the beautiful Agnes — people used to think that 
you were in love with her, and she with you. 


j though she was but a girl, and you little more 
! than a boy in those days.” 

I “ I remember her well,” replied Jean Charost, 
“ and have a high regard for her ” 

“ So has the dauphin,” answered Juvenel de 
Royans, with a meaning smile. 

“ You do not mean to say,” cried Jean Cha- 
rost ; but his companion interrupted him. 

“ I mean to say nothing,” replied De Royans 
“ In fact, men know 'nothing but what I have 
said. It is clear his highness has a great regard 
for her, reverences her advice, follows it, even in 
affairs of war and policy ; and, were it not thai 
his wife reverences and loves her just as much, 
there would be no doubt of the matter ; for her 
exquisite beauty — ” 

“I never thought her very beautiful,” "said 
Jean Charost. “ Her form was fine, and her face 
pretty ; but that is all.” 

“ Oh, but there has been a change,” answered 
De Royans. “She is the same, and yet another. 
It is impossible to describe how beautiful she 
has grown. Every line in her face has become 
fine and delicate. The colors have grown clear 
and pure ; the roses blossom in her cheek ; the 
morning star is sparkling in her eyes; warm as 
the summer, yet dewy as the daybreak. But 
that is not all. There is an inconceivable grace 
in her movements, unlike any thing I ever saw. 
Her quickest gesture is so easy that it seems 
slow, and her lightest change of attitude brings 
out some new perfection in her symmetry ; and 
through the whole there seems a soul, a spirit 
shining like a light upon every thing around. 
Why, the old Bishop of Langres himself said, the 
other day, that, from the parting of her hair to 
the sole of her foot, she was all beauty. The 
good man, indeed, said he did not know whether 
it was the beauty of holiness ; but he hoped so.” 

“ Why, you seem in love with her yourself, 
De Royans,” answered Jean Charost. 

“ Go and see — go and see,” replied his com- 
panion. “ She will greet you right willingly ; 
for she is mild and humble, and ever glad to wel- 
come an old acquaintance.” 

“ But where can I find her?” asked Jean Cha- 
rost. 

“ Oh, you will find her at the Strangers’ Lodg 
ing at the abbey,” answered De Royans. “ The 
dauphin has his head-quarters there, with the 
dauphiness and two or three of her ladies. Were 
I you, 1 would go to her the first ; for her inffu- 
ence is certain, however it comes. But you must 
change your monk’s garb, man ; for, though they 
lodge at the abbey, the court is not very fond of 
the friars. Ah, here comes our landlord. Now, 
Monsieur Langrin, what has made you so long?” 

“ The arrival of Madame De Giac, sir,” answer- 
ed the host. “ I can but give the gentleman a 
mere closet to sleep in, which I destined for an- 
other; but of course, as your friend, he must 
have it ; and as for supper, it is on the table, with 
good wine to boot.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Towns have their varying expressions as well 
as human faces ; and the aspect of Monterreau, on 
the tenth of September, one thousand four hund- 
red and nineteen, presented a curious appear- 
ance, but one which those who have lived long 
on the face of the earth must sometimes have 


98 


AGNES SOREL. 


seen in moments of great excitement and expec- 
tation. The city looked gay. for it was tilled 
with people ; and the splendor-loving soldiery, 
in their ariAs, seen in every direction, gave a 
brilliancy to the streets which in ordinary times 
they did not possess. The day was bright and 
beautiful, too ; one of those clear, warm, Septem- j 
ber days, which often succeed a frosty morning; * 
and the trees, which were then mingled with the 
vineyards on the heights of Surville, caught the ' 
rays of the sun upon foliage gently tinged with ' 
the tints of autumn. The bells of the churches 
rang out, for it was the Sabbath ; and many a 
fair dame, in sparkling attire and with rosary 
on wrist, flaunted her Sunday finery along the 
streets, or might be seen gliding in through the , 
dark portal to join in the service of the day. I 
Still, there was a sort of silent solemnity over , 
the place, an uneasy calm, if I may use an ex- 
pression which seems to imply a contradiction — 
an oppressive expectation. Whenever the bell 
ceased, there seemed no other sound. Men walk- 
ed in groups, and spoke not; even the women 
bated their breath and conversed in lower tones. 

Early in the morning, a gay train had passed 
into the Ciastle, after circling the town till a gate, 
opening beyond the walls into the fields, had 
been reached. There were ladies and waiting- 
women, and several gentlemen of gallant mien, 
and a small troop of archers. But the castle 
gates swallowed them up, and nothing moi'e was 
seen of them for several hours. From time to 
time, two or three horsemen rode out of the town, 
and sometimes a small party re-entered it; but 
these were the only occurrences which gave any 
appearance of movement to the scene till after 
the hour of noon. 

About nine o’clock in the morning, indeed, a 
young man, in the dress of a monk, rode in on a 
mule, put up his beast at a stable, where he was 
obliged to use the name of the Marquis De Roy- 
ans to obtain any attention, and then proceeded 
on foot to a large house situated near the bridge 
over the Yonne. There were a number of peo- 
ple at the door, and he made some inquiries, 
holding a letter in his hand. The answer seem- 
ed unsatisfactory ; for he turned away, and walk- 
ed through the town, inquiring for the abbey, 
which lay upon the other side. 

There were no signs of approaching the pre- 
cincts of a court, as Jean Charost proceeded on 
the way he had been directed. The two streets 
through wliich he passed were nearly deserted, 
and, being turned from the sun, looked cool and 
desolate enough. He began almost to fancy he 
had made a mistake, when, on the opposite side 
of a little s(juare or close, he saw a large and 
very beautiful building, with a church atone end 
of it, and a row of stone posts before it. All that 
was left of it, as far as I remember, in one thou- 
sand eight hundred and twenty-one, was one 
beautiful door- way, with a rounded arch over- 
head. sinking deep with molding within mold- 
ing, of many a quaint and curious device, till it 
made a sort of niche, under which the traveler 
might find shelter from the sun or rain. It was, 
when I saw it, used as the entrance to a granary ; 
but two guards, with halberts on their shoulders, 
walking slowly up and down, and three or four 
servants loitering about, or sitting on the steps, 
showed that it had not been turned to such base 
uses, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred 
and nineteen. ' 

Directly toward this door De Brecy U)ok his 


way, giving a glance round as he passed the cor- 
ners of the houses opposite, and obtaining a view, 
down a short street, of the gently-flowing Seine, 
with its ancient bridge and the walls of the old 
castle. There seemed to be some curious erec- 
tions on the bridge: a little pavilion, with a flag 
fluttering on the top, and several large wooden 
barricades; but De Brecy paused not to inquire 
what they meant, and walking straight on to one 
of the servants, inquired if the Seigneur du Cha- 
tel were there, adding that he had been dii’ected 
thither from his quarters. 

The young gentleman spoke with a tone of 
authority, which, probably, as well as the glis 
tening of a military haubergeon above the neck 
of the monk’s frock, procured him a civil answer 

“ He is here, sir,” answered the servant ; “ but 
is in deep conference with his highness the dau- 
phin and several other lords. He can in no way 
be interrupted.” 

“ Give him that letter when he comes from the 
council, and fail not,” said Jean Charost. “ More- 
over, I must beg of you to see immediately the 
principal officer of his highness’s household, and 
inform him that the Baron De Brecy, a prisoner 
of Azincourt, has arrived from England, bearing 
a letter for the dauphin from his higlmess the 
Duke of Orleans, and craves leave to lay it at his 
feet as soon as his convenience serves.” 

“ I fear, sir, that will not be speedily,” said 
the servant. “ Where may you be found when 
his highness has occasion?” 

“ If Mademoiselle De St. Geran be at the 
court,” replied Jean Charost, a little discouraged 
by the impediments he had met with, “ I will 
crave an interview with her. You may tell her,” 
he added, seeing the man take a step back as if 
to enter the building, “ that Monsieur De Brecy 
waits — an acquaintance of her childhood, whom 
he trusts she may remember.” 

“ You had better follow me, sir,” said the serv- 
ant. “ She is here, and was alone some half 
hour ago.” 

Jean Charost followed the man into the abbey, 
one whole wing of wdiich seemed to be appro- 
priated to the dauphin and his train. No monks 
were visible; but still, the dim, religious light 
of the long passages and arched cloisters, the 
quiet courts, and galleries rich in gray stone fret- 
work, had a solemnity, if not a gloom, which 
Jean Charost thought must contrast strangely 
with some of those wild courtly revelries which 
checkered the fierce strifes and fiery passions of 
the age. 

Passing by a number of small doors leading to 
the cells along the cloister, where probably the 
inferi(»r followers of the court were quartered, 
the young gentleman was led to the foot of a 
flight of highly -ornamented stairs, carried boldly 
up through a wide, lightsome hall, round which 
it turned, and carved and supported with such 
skill and delicacy, that it seemed actually to hang 
in air. At the top ran round a gallery, screened 
by fine tracery of stone-work from the stair-case 
hall, and on the other hand, all round, except 
where the window was placed to afford light, 
were doors, and the opening of corridoi’s, over 
the arch of one of which a ppeared a mitre, show- 
ing that there had formerly been the apartments 
of the abbot. The servant passed on to the next 
corridor, and then led the visitor along to the 
very end, where, after knocking at a door, he 
entered, said a few words, and then opened the 
door wider for Jean Charost to pa.ss in. It was 


AGNES SOREL. 


99 


a email, but richly-decorated room ne entered, 
with a door, apparently leading to another be- 
yond ; and at a table, covered with many-colored 
silks, which she seemed sorting into their differ- 
ent shades, sat a lady, magnificently dressed. 
She raised her eyes, beautiful and full of light, 
but with no glance of recognition in them, and 
t()r a moment De Brecy fancied there must be 
some mistake. There was a certain vague, shad- 
owy likeness to the Agnes Sorel he had formerly 
known, but yet there was a strange difference. 
It was the diamond polished, compared with the 
diamond dull from the mine. 

The next instant, however, the likeness sud- 
denly became more strong. Remembrance 
seemed to Hash up in the countenance of the 
lovely creature before him. She threw down 
the silk, rose hastily from the table, and exclaim- 
ed, with a beaming smile, “ Ah, Monsieur De 
Brecy ! He did not give your name rightly.” 

She was in the very act of advancing to meet 
him; but suddenly she paused, and from some 
cause, unexplained, a warm blush rushed over 
her cheek and forehead, and then, the moment 
after, she turned deadly pale. 

She recovered herself speedily, welcomed him 
tnost kindly, made him sit down by her, and 
listened to all he had to say. She answei-ed him, 
too, with every mark of interest; but, from time 
to time, she fell into a deep, silent fit of thought, 
during which her spirit seemed to take wings 
and fiy faf away. 

“ Forgive me. Monsieur De Brecy,” she said, 
ut length, “ if I seem sometimes inattentive and 
absent. Your sudden and unexpected coming 
carries me back continually to other days, with- 
out leaving me any power of resistance — I know 
not whether to call them happier days, though 
they were happier in one sense. They were 
days full of hopes and purposes, alas ! not to be 
accomplished. But we learn hard lessons. Mon- 
sieur De Brecy, in this severe school of life. We 
learn to bear much that we thought we could nev- 
er bear; and by constantly seeing changes and 
chances, and all that befalls others, learn to yield 
ourselves unresisting to our fate, with the sad phi- 
losophy of enjoying the day, from a knowledge 
that we have no power ov'er the morrow. Oh, 
what a lapse of strange things there seems to be 
since you and I last met! The frightful murder 
of the poor Duke of Orleans, and your own unde- 
served sufferings, mark out that distant time lor 
memory as with a monument. Between that 
point and this, doubtless, much has occurred to 
both of us that can never be forgotten. But, God 
help us ! it is vvell to curb diemory with a strong 
hand, that she run not always back to the things 
past, for the course of all mankind is onward. 
•Now let us talk of what can be done for your de- 
liverance. You must, of course, see his highness 
the dauphin before his meeting with the Duke 
of Burgundy, and I thjnll^ I can warrant that he 
will make a strong effok for your deliverance. 
He is a noble and a generous prince, and will do 
much to serve his friends — though. Heaven 
knows, he has had discouragement ©nough to 
weary the heart, and sink the energies of any 
one. Nothing but selfi.shness around him, taking 
all the many shapes of that foul, clinging fiend 
which preys forever upon human nature— ambi- 
tion, covetousness, petty malice, calumny, sordid 
envy, ingratitude — wherever he turns, there is 
one of its hateful Hydra heads gaping wide- 
mouthed upon him. Yes, you must certainly see 


him before the meeting, for no one knows when 
there may be another — The meeting ! What will 
be the parting?” 

She fell into a fit of thought again, but it lasted 
not long ; and, looking up, she added, “ I know 
not how it is. Monsieur De Brecy, but a certain 
sort of dread has come upon me in regard to this 
meeting, and every one who approaches me seems 
to feel the same. I can not help remembering 
that this man who comes hither to-day murdered 
his own first cousin, when pretending the utmost 
affection for him, and vowing peace and amity at 
the altar ; and I should fear for the dauphin’s 
safety, if T did not know that he has' twenty thou- 
sand men in this place and neighborhood, and 
that every possible precaution has been taken. 
What is it, I wonder, makes me feel so sad ? Do 
you think there is any danger ?” 

“I trust not,” replied Jean Charost. “They 
tell me the two princes are to meet within bar- 
riers, assisted by some of their most experienced 
counselors ; and though the castle has been given 
up to the duke, yet the dauphin’s force is so . 
much superior to any Burgundian body which 
could be brought up, that it would be madness 
to attempt any surprise.” 

“ Could he not secretly introduce a large force 
into the castle,” asked Agues, “ and, rushing sud- 
1 denly upon the bridge, make the dauphin his 
I prisoner?” 

I “ He would be taken in the flank and rear,” 

I replied De Brecy, “ and speedily punished for 
his temerity. No, dear lady, as far as I can 
judge, the interview must be a very safe one. 
But, if you wish, I will go and make further in- 
quiries.” 

“ No, no,” she replied; “you must stay here. 
The council may break up at any moment, and 
I will then introduce you to his highness — pro- 
vided they do not sit till after the dinner hour, 
when it would be well for you to go away and 
return. The duke, they say, will not be here 
till two or three o’clock ; but he has sent word 
' from Bray that; he will assuredly come. Nay, is 
1 not Madame De Giac in the castle ? That is a cer- 
' tain sign of his coming. Now let us talk of other 
I things, and turn our eyes once more back to other 
• days. I love sometimes a calm, dreamy confer- 
ence with memory — as one sits over a fire at even- 
tide, and sees misty pageants of the mind rise up 
before the half-closed eyes, all in a bright, soft 
haze. Do you recollect that boy who played so 
' beautifiilly upon the violin ? He is now the chief 
musician to her highness the dauphiness. Would 
he were here : he would soon soften down all 
hard fears and doubts with sweet music.” 

.lean Charost took his tone from her, and the 
1 conversation proceeded, quietly and tranquilly 
I enough, for more than an hour, Agnes Sorel some- 
' times reverting to her companion’s actual situa- 
tion, but more frequently suffering her thoughts 
to linger about the past, as those are inclined to 
do who feel uncertain of the present or the future. 
Twice she turned the little hour-glass that stood 
upon the table, but at length she said, “ It is in 
vain to wait longer. Monsieur De Brecy. His 
highness’s dinner-hour is now fast approaching. 

; Return to me at two o’clock ; and in the mean 
’ time, if possible, see Tanneguy du Chdtel. He 
may befriend you much, for he is greatly in the 
prince’s favor, and, moreover, he is honest and 
true, though somewhat fierce, and rough of 
speech, and unforgiving. But he is zealous and 
faithful for his prince, and, strange to say, no en- 


100 


AGNES SOREL. 


vier of other men who seem rising into power 
with less truth and less merit than himself. I 
will not say farewell, for we shall meet again 
shortly. Remember, two o’clock.” 

Jean Charost retired at once ; but, as he found 
iiis way down the stairs, he heard a door below 
thrown suddenly open, and several persons speak- 
ing, and even laughing, as they came out. In 
the hall, at the foot of the stairs, he found some 
twelve or fifteen persons slowly moving across, 
some stopping for a moment to add a word or 
two more to something which had gone before; 
others hurrying on toward the door by which he 
had entered the building. Among the former 
was a tall, powerful man, exceedingly broad in 
the shoulders, with a long peacock’s feather in 
his cap, who paused for an instant just at the foot 
of the stairs to speak with a thin old man in a 
black gown. 

Jean Chai’ost had just passed them, when the 
servant with whom he had spoken before ap- 
proached the taller man as if to speak to him ; and 
before Jean had taken ten steps more, he heard 
his name pronounced aloud. 

“ Monsieur De Brecy — Monsieur De Brecy !” 
said the voice ; and, turning round, he found the 
personage with the peacock’s feather following 
him. His manner was quick and decided, and 
not altogether pleasant, yet there was a frank- 
ness about it which one often finds in men of a 
bold and ready spirit, where there is no great 
tenderness or delicacy of feeling — stern things 
and rough, but serviceable and sincere. 

“ This letter from De Royans,” he said, “comes 
at a moment of some hurry; but yet your busi- 
ness wants speedy attention. Come to my house 
and dine. We will talk as we eat. We have 
not time for ceremony.” 

As he spoke, he took hold of Jean Charost’s 
arm, as if he had been an old friend, and drew 
him on, with long strides, to the house at vrhich 
the young gentleman had called in the morning. 
As they went, he inquired what he had done in 
the matter of his ransom, and when he heard 
that he had seen Mademoiselle De St. Geran, and 
interested her in his behalf, he exclaimed, “ ’Tis 
the best thing that could be done. I could not 
serve you as well as she can. Are you an old 
friend of hers?” 

“ I knew her when she was a mere girl,” an- 
swered Jean Charost. 

Du Chatel appeared hardly to hear his answer, 
for he seemed, like Agnes Sorel, subject to fits 
of deep thought that day ; and he did not wake 
from the reverie into which he had fallen till 
they reached the door of his dwelling. Then, as 
they were mounting the steps, he broke forth 
again with the words, “ She can do what she will 
— lucky that she always wills well for France. 
Let me see — ” Then, speaking to a servant, he 
added, “ Dinner instantly. Tell Marivault to 
have my armor all laid out ready. Come, De 
Brecy, all I can do for you I will. But that is 
only to make you known to the dauphin, and it 
must be hastily too. The fair Agnes must plead 
your cause with him, though I think it will not 
need much pleading.” 

While he had been speaking, he had advanced 
into a little room on the left hand side of the en- 
trance, where a small table was laid, as if for the 
dinner of one person, and throwing himself on a 
stool, he pointed to another, saying, “ If this in- 
terview ends well, I think there can be no doubt 
of your success.” 


“ I trust it will end well,” said Jean Charost* 
“ Is there any reason to think otherwise ?” 

“Hum!” said Tanneguy du Chatel. “That 
will depend altogether upon the Duke of Bur- 
gundy. He is pulled up and insolent, and there 
be hot spirits about the dauphin. It were well 
for him not to use such bold words as he has 
lately indulged in. We all mean him well, and 
fairly ; but if he luifiles his wings as he has lately 
done, he may chance to go back with his feath- 
ers singed; and then, ray good friend, your suit 
would be of no avail. Ah, here comes the pot- 
tage. Eat, eat ; for we must be quick. It must 
be a strange thing,” he continued, after he had 
taken his soup ; “ it must be a strange thing to go 
about the world with the consciousness that every 
man in all the land believes your death would 
be the salvation of France ! I should not like the 
sensation. Here, wine — boy, give me wine ! 
God send that this all ends well. If the Duke 
of Burgundy will but be reasonable, sacrifice 
some small part of his ambition to his country’s 
good, I’emember that he is a subject and a French- 
man, and fulfill his promises, we may see some 
happy days again, and drive these islanders from 
the land. If not, we are all at sea again.” 

“I trust he will,” answered Jean Charost; 
“ but yet he is of a stem, unbending spirit, as I 
have cause to know.” 

“ Ha ! Has he been your enemy, too ?” asked 
Du Chdtel. 

“ Not exactly,” answered Jean Charost. ‘tin- 
deed, long ago he made me high offers if I would 
enter his service; but it was an insult rather 
than a compliment; for he had just then caused 
the assassination of the Duke of Orleans, my no- 
ble lord.” 

Du Chatel ground his teeth. “ Ah, the vil- 
lain,” he said. “ That is a score to be wiped oflT 
yet. But you must have done something to serve 
him previously. John of Burgundy is not a man 
to court any one without some strong motive of 
self-interest.” 

“ I have often puzzled myself as to what could 
be his motive,” answered Jean Charost, with a 
smile, “but have never been even able to guess 
at any inducement, unless it were some words 
of an astrologer at Pithiviers, who told him I 
should be present at his death, and try to prevent 
it.” 

“ Heaven send the prophesy may be soon ac- 
complished !” exclaimed Tanneguy du Chatel, 
with a laugh. “ I longed to send my sword 
through him the other day at Troyes; but I thought 
it would be hardly courteous in his own house, 
when we were eating together. But if I could 
meet with him, lance to lance, in the field, I think 
one or the other of us would not ride far after.” 

“ Shall I give you more wine, my lord ?” asked 
a page, advancing with a flagon. 

“ No,” replied his master ; “ I am hot enough 
already. Change that dish. What is there else 
for dinner ?” 

A man came in as he spoke, and said, in a low 
voice, “ The duke is on the road, my lord.” 

“ Well, let him come,” replied Du Chdtel. 
“We are ready for him.” 

“ Perhaps he may not come on still,” replied 
the man ; “ for Anthony of Thoulongeon and 
John of Ermay have been examining the barri- 
cades upon the bridge with somewhat dark faces, 
and have ridden out to meet the duke, their mas- 
ter.” 

“ Then let him stay away,” answered Du ChA- 


AGNES 

tel, abruptly. We mean him no ill. He has i 
been courted enough. It’s his own conscience 
makes him afraid to come. Here is some hare, 
De Brecy. Take some wine, take some wine. 
You do not require so spare a diet as I do. Odds 
life! they let you blood enough at Azincourt to 
keep you calm and tranquil.” 

When the brief, frugal dinner was over. Tan- 
neguy du Chdtel started up, saying, I must go 
get on my harness. You hurry back to the beau- 
tiful lady you wot of, and wait with her till you | 
hear from me, unless the dauphin comes in and ' 
your business is settled. If not, I will present 
you to him before the interview, in the good hope 
that matters will go smoothly, and some fair con- 
ditions be settled for the good of France. I 
know not what is in me to-day. I feel as if 
quickened by another spirit. Well, I must get 
on this armor.” 

Thus sayhig, he left the room, and Jean Cha- 
rost found his way back to the abbey, wherQ he 
was kept some time before he obtained audience 
of Agnes Sorel. When he was at length admit- 
ted, he found her seated with another lady some- 
what younger than herself, and very beautiful 
also, with their arms thrown round each other’s 
waists. Neither moved when the young gentle- 
man entered ; but Agnes, bowing her head, said, 
"This is Monsieur De Brecy, madam, of whom 
I spoke to your highness. Monsieur De Brecy, I 
present you to the dauphiness.” 

Jean Charost, it need hardly be said, was 
greatly surprised, and, in some degree, embar- 
rassed; for the suspicions of others had created 
suspicions in himself, which he now mistakenly 
thought were mistaken. He paid all due rever- 
ence to the dauphiness, however, and remained 
for nearly an hour conversing with her and the 
beautiful Agnes, who were both waiting anx- 
iously, it seemed, for the appearance of the dau- 
phin. The part of the house in which they were 
was very quiet; but the sounds from the coun- 
try came more readily to the ear than those pro- 
ceeding from the town. Some noise, like the 
hoof-tramp of many horses, was heard, and the 
dauphiness Jooked at Agnes anxiously. 

“What is that? Can you see. Monsieur De 
Brecy?” asked the latter; and Jean Chai’ost 
sprang to the window. 

“ A large party of horse,” he answered. “ I 
should judge from four to five hundred men.” 

“ It is the duke,” exclaimed the dauphiness. 
“ Dearest Agnes, are you sure there is no dan- 
ger? Remember the Duke of Orleans.” 

“ True, madam,” replied Agnes ; “ but he was 
well-nigh alone. His highness has twenty thou- 
sand men around him.” 

The dau{)hiness cast down her eyes iu thought, 
and the moment after one of the officers of the 
household entered, saying, “ Monsieur De Brecy, 
the Seigneur du Chdtel desires to see you below.” 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

When Jean Charost reached the bottom of 
the great stair-case, he found every thing be- 
low in a state of great hurry and confusion. A 
number of persons were passing out, and stately 
forms, and burnished arms, and waving plumes 
were seen flowing along through the corridor 
like a stream. At the foot of the stairs stood 
Tan neguy du Chatel in complete arms, with his 


SOREL. 101 

right foot raised upon the first step, his knee 
supporting the pommel of a small baltle-ax, 
and his hand resting on the blade of the weapon. 
His beaver was up, and the expression of his 
countenance eager and impatient. “Quick, 
quick, De Brecy,” he said. “The prince has 
gone on. We must catch him before the inter- 
view begins, if you would speed in your suit.” 

“I am ready,” said the young man ; and on 
they hastened, somewhat impeded by the num- 
ber of attendants and noblemen of the dauphin’s 
court, who were already following him toward 
the bridge over the Seine. They issued out of 
the abbey, at length, and then made greater 
progress in the open streets. But, neverthe- 
less, they did not overtake the prince and the 
group that immediately surrounded him, till he 
had reached the foot of the high arched bridge 
on which the barriers were erected. In the open 
space on either side of the road, between the 
houses and the water, were- assembled a strong 
body of horse and two large companies of arch- 
ers. A herald and a marshal kept the way clear 
for the prince and his train, and no one appeared 
upon the bridge itself but some men, stationed 
at each of the four barriers, to open and close 
the gates as the several parties passed in. On 
the opposite side of the river towered up the old 
castle, with its outworks coming quite down to 
the bridge ; but nobody appeared there except 
a few soldiers on the walls. 

“ Here is Monsieur De Brecy, royal sir,” said 
Tanneguy du Chatel, approaching the dauphin 
— a tall and graceful, but slightly-formed young 
man — “ the gentleman who has been a prisoner 
since Azincourt, of whom I spoke to your high- 
ness, as did also, I hear, your royal lady, and 
Mademoiselle De St. Geran.” 

The dauphin turned partly round, and gave 
one glance at Jean Charost, saying, “ Bring him 
in with you, Du Chatel. We will speak with 
him within the barriers ; for, by all I see, my 
fair cousin of Burgundy intends to keep me 
waiting.” 

Thus saying, the dauphin passed on with two 
or three other persons, the barrier being raised 
to give him admission. The man in charge of 
the gate seemed to hesitate at the sight of Jean 
Charost in his monk’s gown ; but Du Chatel ex- 
claimed, sharply, “The Baron De Brecy. Let 
him pass. I am his warrant.” 

The second barrier was passed in the same 
way as the first by the dauphin and his imme- 
diate followers ; but a number of the train re- 
mained between the two barricades, according 
to orders apparently previously given. The 
keeper of the second barrier made greater dif- 
ficulty than the other to let Jean Charost pass ; 
and it was not till the dauphin himself turned 
his head, and said, “ Let him enter,” that the 
rail was raised. 

Across the centre of the bridge a single light 
rail was drawn, and in the space between that 
and the second barrier was placed a little pa- 
vilion, decorated with crimson silk, and furnish- 
ed with a chair for the use of the prince. He 
advanced at once toward it and seated himself, 
and those who accompanied him, in number 
about two or three and twenty, gathered round, 
and an eager conversation seemed to take place 
among them. Tanneguy du Chatel mingled 
with the rest, approaching close to the side of 


102 


AGNES SOREL. 


the dauphin ; but Jean Charost remained on 
the verge of the group, unnoticed, and apparent- 
ly forgotten. 

Some one vv^as heard to say something regard- 
ing the insolence of keeping his highness wait- 
ing ; and then the voice of Du Chatel answered, 
in a frank tone, “Not insolence, perhaps — sus- 
picion and fear, very likely.” 

“We wish him no ill,” said the dauphin. 
“ Let him keep his promises, and we will em- 
brace him with all friendship. Perhaps he does 
not know that we are here. Go and summon 
him, Du Chatel.” 

Without reply, Tanneguy hastened away, 
vaulted, armed as he was, over the rail which 
crossed the bridge at the centre, and passed 
through the two other barriers on tlie side of 
the castle, disappearing under the archway of 
the gate. 

The eyes of most persons present were turn- 
ed in that direction ; but the dauphin looked 
round, with a somewhat listless air, as if for 
some object with which to fill up the time, and, 
seeing Jean Charost, he beckoned him up. 

“I am glad to see you. Monsieur De Brecy,” 
he said. “ They tell me you have a letter for 
me from my cousin of Orleans. Were you not, 
if I remember right, the secretary of his father, 
my uncle, who was so basely njurderedl” 

“ I was, your highness,” replied Jean Charost. 
“Permit me to present you the young duke’s 
letter.” 

The dauphin took it, but did not break the seal, 
merely saying, “ I grieve deeply fur my good 
cousin’s long imprisonment, and if we can bring 
this stout-hearted Duke of Burgundy to any 
thing like reasonable terms of accommodation, I 
doubt not that we shall be able .to conclude 
an honorable peace with England, in which case 
his liberation shall be stipulated, and yours, too. 
Monsieur De Brecy ; for I am told you not only 
served well, and suffered much at Azincourt, 
but that your noble devotion to my murdered 
uncle had well-nigh cost your own life. Rest 
assured you shall be remembered.” 

Jean Charost judged rightly whence the 
prince’s information came ; and he was express- 
ing his thanks, when some of those who were 
standing round exclaimed, “The duke is com- 
ing, your highness !” 

“ Somewhat late,” said the young prince, 
with a frown ; “ but better that than not come 
at all. Well go, some of you, and do him hon- 
or.” 

Thus saying, he rose and advanced slowly 
to the rail across the bridge, on which he leaned, 
crossing his arms upon his chest. 

In the meanwhile, a small party, consisting of 
ten or twelve people, were seen approaching 
from the gate of the castle. At the first barrier 
they halted, and a short consultation seemed to 
take place. Before it was finished they were 
joined by some six or seven noblemen who had 
left the group about the dauphin by his com- 
mand. They then moved forward again ; but 
some way in advance of them came Tanneguy 
du Chatel, with a quick step and a flushed coun- 
tenance. 

“This man is very bold, my prince,” he said, 
in a low lone. “ God send his looks and words 
may be more humble here, for I know not how 
any of us will bear it.” 


“ Go back— go back, and bring him on,” said 
the dauphin. “He shall hear some trjuths he 
may not lately have heard. Be you calm, Du 
Chatel, and leave me to deal with him. 1 will 
not spare.” 

Eagerness to see all the strange scene that 
was passing had led Jean Charost almost close 
to the rail by the time that Tanneguy du Chatel 
turned, and advanced once more to meet the 
Duke of Burgundy. That prince was now easily 
to be distinguished a little in advance of his 
company, and Jean Charost remarked that he 
had greatly changed since he last saw him. 
Though still a strong and active ntan, he looked 
much older, and deep lines of anxious thought 
were traced upon his cheek and brow. At first 
his eyes were fixed upon the daupliin, who con- 
tinued to lean against the rail without the slight- 
est movement ; but as he came on, the duke 
looked to the right and left, running his eyes 
over the prince’s attendants, and when about 
: ten steps from the rail, they rested firmly and 
inquiringly on the face of Jean Charost. For 
a momerit the sight seemed to puzzle him ; l)ul 
then a look of recognition came over his conn- 
I tenance ; and the next instant he turned deadly 
pale. 

A sort of hesitation was seen in his step and 
air ; but he recovered himself at once, advanced 
straight to the dauphin, and bent one knee to 
the ground before him, tlirowing his heavy 
sword behind with his left hand. 

The dauphin moved not, spoke not, for a mo- 
ment, but gazed upon ilie duke with a heavy, 
frowning brow. “Well, cousin of Burgundy,” 
he said, at length, without asking him to rise, 

, “you have come at length. I thought you 
were going to violate your promise now, as in 
the other cases.” 

“ I have violated no promises, Charles of 
France,” replied the duke, in a tone equally 
sharp. 

“ Heaven is witness that you have,” answer- 
' ed the dauphin. “ Did you not promise to cease 
i from war I Did you not promise to withdraw 
your garrisons from five cities where they still 
are V 

The duke’s face flushed, his eyes sparkled, 
and his brow contracted. What he replied, 
Jean Charost did not hear; but seeing a gen- 
tleman close to the dauphin lay his hand upon 
his dagger, he caught him by the arm, whisper- 
ing, “Forbear! forbear!” 

At the same moment, one of the dauphin’s 
I officers, who had gone to meet the duke, look 
that prince by the arm, saying, “ Rise, sir — rise. 
You are too honorable to remain kneeling” 

Whether the duke heard, or mistook him, 1 • 
know not ; but he turned sharply toward him. 
with a fierce look, and, either moved by his 
I haughty spirit, or in order to rise more easily, 
he put his right hand on the hilt of his sword ; 
and Robert de Loire exclaimed, in a voice of 
thunder, “ Dare you put your hand on your 
sword in the presence of our lord the dauphin !” 

“It is lime that this should cease!” cried 
I Tanneguy du Chatel, his witole countenance in- 
j flamed, and his eyes flashing fire ; and at the 
! same moment he struck the duke a blow with* 

I the ax he carried in his hand. 

Burgundy started up, and partly drew his 
i sword ; but another blow beat him on his knee 


AGNES SOREL. 


103 


again, and another cast him headlong to the 
ground. A strong man, named Oliver de Laget 
and another sprang upon him, and thrust a 
sword into his body. At the same moment, a 
scuffle occurred at a little distance between one 
of the followers of the duke and some of the 
dauphin’s party, and Jean Charost saw a man 
fall ; hut all was confused and indistinct. Hor- 
ror, surprise, and a wild, grasping effort of the 
mind to seize all the consequences to France, 
to England, to himself, which might follow that 
dreadful act, stupefied and confounded liim. 
Every thing passed, as in a dream, with rapid 
indistinctness, to he brought out vivid and 
strong by an after effort of memory. That the 
duke was killed at the very feet of the dauphin, 
was all that his mind had room for at the mo- 
ment. 

The next instant a voice exclaimed, “ Look 
to the dauphin — look to the dauphin!” and 
Jean Charost saw him staggering back from 
the rail as pale as death, and with his eyes half 
closed. 

It is not unlikely that many there present 
had contemplated as possible some such event 
as that which had taken place, without any 
definite purpose of effecting it, or taking any 
part therein. Popular expectation has often 
something prophetic in it, and the warning voice, 
which had rendered so many grave and thought- 
ful during the whole course of that morning, 
must have been heard also by the actors of the 
scene which had just passed. But one thing is 
certain, and the whole history of the time leaves 
no doubt of the fact, that the dauphin himself 
had neither any active share in his cousin’s 
death, nor any participation in a conspiracy to 
effect it. They bore him back, fainting, to the 
little pavilion which had been raised for his ac- 
commodation, and thence, after a time, led him, 
in profound silence, to the abbey, while his 
followers secured a number of the Duke of 
Burgundy’s immediate attendants, and the sol- 
diery, crowding on the bridge, threatened the 
castle itself with assault. 

Jean Charost retired from the scene with a 
sad heart. His hopes were disappointed ; his 
fate seemed sealed ; but though he felt all this 
bitterly, yet he felt still more despondency at 
the thought of his unhappy country’s fate. Per- 
sonal rivalry, selfish ambition, greed of power 
and of wealth, undisciplined valor, insubordi- 
nate obstinacy, were all urging her on to the 
verge of a precipice from which a miracle seem- 
ed necessary to save her. The feelings which 
filled his breast at that moment were very like 
those expressed by the contemporary historian 
when he wrote, “Only to hear recounted this 
affair is so pitiful and lamentable that greater 
there can not be ; and especially the hearts of 
all noble men, and other true men, natives of 
the kingdom of France, must be of great sad- 
ness and shame in beholding those of such no- 
ble blood as of the jleur de Us, so near of kin- 
dred, themselves destroy one another, and the 
same kingdom placed, in consequence of the 
facts above mentioned, and others past and 
done before, in the way and the danger of fall- 
ing under a new lord and altogether going to 
perdition.” 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

To dwell minutely upon a period unfilled by 
action, and merely marked by the revolution 
of day and night, even in the life of a person 
in w’hom we have some interest, would be al- 
most as dull as to describe in detail the turning 
of a grindstone. It is not with the eventless 
events of a history that we have to do — not 
with the flat spaces on the road of life. We 
sit not down to relate a sleep or to paint a fish- 
pond. 

Little occurred to Jean Charost during the 
rest of his stay in France that is worth the tell- 
ing which will not be referred to hereafter. 
Let us change the scene then, and, spreading 
the wings of Fancy, fly on through the air of 
Time to a spot some years in advance. 

There was an old house, or rather palace, 
and well it deserved the name, situated near 
the great city of London, close upon the banks 
of the River Thames. Men now living can re- 
member parts of it still standing, choked up with 
houses, like some great shell of the green deep 
incrusted with limpets and other tiny habita- 
tions of the vermin of the sea. At the time of 
this history it had gardens running all around 
it, extending wide and pleasantly on the water 
side, though but narrow between the palace it- 
self and the slone-battlemented wall which 
separated them from the great Strand road lead- 
ing from the Temple gate of the city to the vil- 
lage of Charing. 

Fretted and richly carved in some parts, plain 
and stern in others, the old palace of the Savoy 
combined in itself the architecture of several 
ages. Many were the purposes it had served 
too — sometimes the place of revelry and mirth 
— sometimes the w'itness of the prisoner’s tears. 
It had been the residence of John, king of 
France, during his captivity in England some 
half century before ; and since that time it had 
principally served — grown almost by prescrip- 
tion to be so used — as an honorable prison for 
foreign enemies when the chances of war 
brought them in bonds to England. 

In the midst of the embattled wall that I have 
mentioned, and projecting a little beyond its 
line, stood a great gate-house, which has long 
since been pulled down, or has fallen, perhaps, 
without the aid of man ; and that gate-house 
had two large towers of three stories each, af- 
fording very comfortable apartments, as that 
day went, to their occasional tenants. They 
were roomy and pleasant of aspect enough. 
One of these lowers was appropriated to the 
wardens of the Savoy and their families, while 
the other received at various times a great num- 
ber of different denizens, sometimes princes, 
sometimes prisoners, sometimes refugees, peo- 
ple who remained but a few days, people who 
passed there half a lifetime. The stone walls 
within were thickly traced with names, some 
scrawled with chalk, or written in ink ; and 
among these the most conspicuous were records 
of the existence there for several years of per- 
sons attached to the unfortunate King John. 

It was a cheerful building in those days ; 
nothing obscured the view or hid the sunshine ; 
and the smiling gardens, the glittering river, or 
the busy high-road could be seen from most of 
the windows of the palace. 


104 


AGNES SOREL. 


In a room on the first floor of the eastern 
tower of the gate-house, Jean Charost is once 
more before us. Monterreau’s blood-stained 
bridge, the dauphin and the murderers, and the 
dying Duke of Burgundy, have passed away ; 
and there are but two women with him. Yes, 
I may call them women both, though their ages 
are very far apart. One is in the silver-haired 
decline of life, the other is just blossoming; 
they are the withered flower and the bud. 

They were seated round a little table, and 
had evidently been talking earnestly. Madame 
De Brecy’s eyes had traces of tears on them, 
and those of the young girl, turned up to Jean 
Charost’s face, were full of eagerness and en- 
treaty. 

“ In vain, dear mother — in vain,” said Jean 
Charost. “ My resolution is as firm as ever. 
Jacques Cceur is generous ; but I can not lay 
myself under such an obligation, and even at 
the most moderate rate, to raise such a sum in 
the present state of France, would deprive you 
of two thirds of your whole income. This cap- 
tivity is weary to rne To remain here year after 
year, while France has been dismembered, her 
crown bought and sold, her fair fields ravaged, 
her cities become slaughter houses, has been 
terrible — has doubled the load of time, has de- 
pressed my light spirits, and almost worn out 
hope and expectation. But yet I will not trust 
the fate of two. so dear as you two are, to the 
power of circumstances. You say, apply to 
Lord Willoughby. I have applied ; but it is in 
vain. He gives me, as you know, all kindly 
liberty ; no act of kindness or courtesy is want- 
ing. But on one point he is inflexible, and we 
all feel and know that he is ruled by a power 
which he must obey. It is the same with others 
who have prisoners of some consideration. 
They can not place them at reasonable ransom, 
though the rules of chivalry and courtesy re- 
quire it.” 

“ He seems a kind man, Jean,” said the young 
girl, still looking in his face. “He spoke gen- 
tly and good-humoredly to me.” 

“Ay, gentleness and good humor, n)y sweet 
Agnes,” said Jean Charost, “ will not make a 
man disobey the c(),mmands of his monarch. 
Another month, and I shall have lain a prisoner 
seven long years. Why, Agnes, my hair is 
growing gray, while yours is getting darker 
every hour. I can recollect your locks like sun- 
shine on a hill, and now a raven’s wing is hard- 
ly blacker.” 

“ Ah, I saw a gray hair the other day in that 
curl upon your temple,” said the girl, with a 
laugh. “ You will soon be a white-headed old 
man, Jean, if you obstinately remain here, when 
«Mir dear mother would willingly sell all to free 
you Though I think, after all, you are getting 
a little younger since we came. We have now 
been three years with you in this horrible coun- 
try. and I think you look a year younger.” 

Jean Charost smiled, saying, “ Certainly I 
do. Sunshine, else do you shine in vain.” 

“Well, I am going out to seek more sun- 
shine,” said the girl. “ I will wander away up 
the bank of the river, and say an ave at the 
Blackfriars’ Church. And then, perhaps, I will 
go into the Church of the Templar’s, and look 
at the tombs of the old knights, with their feet 
crossed, and their swords half drawn ; and then 


I will come back again ; for then it will be din- 
ner-time. Good-by till then.” 

She tripped away with a light step, down the 
stair-case, out upon the road ; and when Jean 
Charost looked after her out of the window he 
saw her going slowly and thoughtfully along. 
But Agnes did not continue that pace for any 
great distance. As soon as she was out of the 
gate tower of the Savoy, she hurried on with 
great rapidity, turned up a narrow lane between 
two fields on the west of the road, and, passing 
the house of the Bishop of Lincoln, not even 
stopping to scent her favorite briar rose w'hich 
was thick upon the hedges, paused at a modern 
brick house — modern in those days — with tow- 
ers and turrets in plenty, and the arms of the 
house of Willoughby hung out from a spear 
above the gate. 

An old white-headed man sat upon the great 
stone bench beneath the archway ; and a soldier 
moved backward and forward upon a project- 
ing gallery in front of the building. A page, 
playing with a cat, was seen further in under 
the arch, in the blue shade, and one or two loi- 
terers appeared in the court beyond, on the 
side where the summer sun could not visit 
them. 

I Agnes stopped by the porter’s side, and asked 
! if she could see the Lord Willoughby, 
i “ Doubtless, doubtless,” said the man, “ if he 
be not taking his forenoon sleep, and that can 
hardly be, for old Thomas of Erpingham has 
been with him, and the right worshipful deaf 
knight’s sweet voice would well-nigh rouse the 
dead — ’specially when he talks of Azincourt. 
Go, boy, to our lord, and tell him a young maid- 
en wants to see him. Ah, I can recollect the 
time when that news would have got a speedy 
answer. But alack, fair lady, we grow slow as 
we get old. Sit you down by me now, till the 
page returns, and then the saucy fellows in the 
court dare not gibe.” 

Agnes seated herself, as he invited her ; but 
she had not waited long ere the boy returned, 
and ushered her through one long passage to a 
room on the ground floor, where she found the 
old lord writing a letter — with some difficulty 
it must be confessed ; for he was no great scribe 
j — but very diligently. He hardly looked round, 
but continued his occupation, saying, “What is 
, it, child 1 The boy tells me you would speak 
! with me.” 

; “ When you have leisure, my good lord,” re- 

plied Agnes, standing a little behind him. But 
I the old man started at her voice, and turned 
I round to gaze at her. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “My little French 
lady, is that you 1 It is very strange, your face 
I always puts me in mind of some one else, and 
' your tongue does so too. However, there is no 
time in life to think of such things. Sit you 
dowm — sit you dowm a moment. I shall soon 
have finished this epistle — would it were in the 
fire. I have but a line to add.” 

He was near a quarter of an hour, however, 
ill finishing that line ; and Agnes sat mute and 
thoughtful, gazing at his face, and, as one will 
do W'hen one has important interests depending 
on another, drawing auguries from every line 
about it. It was a good, honest old English 
face, wJth an expression of frank good nature, 
a little tesliness, and much courtesy ; and the 


AGNES SOREL. 


105 


young girl drew favorable inferences before she 
ended her reverie. 

At length the letter was finished, folded, seal- 
ed, and dispatched ; and then turning to Agnes, 
the old soldier took her hands in his, saying, “ I 
am glad to see you, my dear. What is it you 
wanti Our friend at the Savoy — your father 
— brother — husband— I know not what, is not 
ill, I hope.” 

“Very ill,” replied Agnes, in a quiet, gentle 
tone. 

“ Ha !” cried tlie old gentleman. “ How so 1 
What is the matter 1” 

“ He is ill at ease, my lord — sick at heart — is 
in a fever to return to his own land.” 

“You little deceiver,” cried Lord Willough- 
by, laughing. “You made me anxious about 
the good young baron, and now it is but the old 
story, after all. But why should he pine so to 
get back to France 1 This is a fine country — 
this a fine city ; and God is my witness I do all 
I can to make him happy. He is little more 
than a prisoner in name.” 

“ But still a prisoner, my lord,” replied Agnes, 
with a touching earnestness. “ The very name 
is the chain. Think you not that to a gentle- 
man, a man of a free spirit, the very feeling of 
being a prisoner is heavier than fetters of iron 
to a serf. You may cage a singing-bird, my 
lord, but an eagle beats itself to death against 
the bars. Would you be content to rest a cap- 
tive in France, however well treated you might 
bel Would you be content to know that you 
could not revisit your own dear land, see the 
scenes where your youth had passed, embrace 
your friends and relations, breathe your own 
native airl Would you be content to sit down 
at night in a lonely room, not in your own cas- 
tle, and, looking at your wrists, though you saw 
not the fetters there, say to yourself, ‘ I am a 
captice, nevertheless. A captive to my fellow- 
man— I can not go where I would, do what 1 1 
would. I am bound down to times and places — 
a prisoner — a prisoner still, though I may carry 
my prison about with me !’ Would any man 
be content with thisl and if so, how much less 
can a knight and a gentleman sit down in peace 
and quiet, content to be a prisoner in a foreign 
land, when his country needs his services, when 
every gentleman of France is wanted for the 
aid of France, when his king is to be served, 
his country’s battles to be fought, even against 
you, my lord, and his own honor and renown to 
be maintained 1” 

“ Ay ; you touch me there — you touch me 
there, young lady,” said the old nobleman. “On 
my life, for my part, I would never keep a brave 
enemy in prison, but have him pay only what 
he could for ransom, and then let him go to 
fight me again another day.” 

“ Monsieur De Brecy’s father,” continued 
Agnes, simply, “died in a lost field against the 
English. The son is here in an English prison. 
Think you not that he envies his father 1” 

“ Perhaps he does, perhaps he does,” cried 
Lord Willoughby, starting up, and walking back- 
ward and forward in the room. “ But what can 
r do 1” he continued, stopping before Agnes and 
gazing at her with a look of sincere distress. 
The king made me promise that I would not 
liberate any of my prisoners, so long as he and 
I both lived, without his special consent, except 


at the heavy ransoms he himself had fixed. My 
dear child, you talk like a woman, and yet you 
touch me like a child. But you can, I am sure, 
understand that it is not in my power ; or, upon 
my faith and chivalry, I would grant what you 
desire.” 

The tears rose in Agnes’s beautiful eyes. 
“ I know you would be kind,” she said. “But 
his mother insisted upon selling all they have 
to pay his ransom. He would not have it ; for 
it would reduce her to poverty, and I came 
away to see if I could not move you.” 

“ Oil my life,” cried Lord Willoughby, “ I 
have a mind to send you to the king.” , 

“ Where is he 1” cried Agnes. “ 1 am ready 
to go to him at once.” 

The old lord shook his head: “He is in 
France,” he said ; and was going to add some- 
thing more, when a tall servant suddenly open- 
ed the door, and began some announcement by 
saying, “My lord, here is — ” 

But he was not suffered to finish the sen- 
tence ; for a powerful, middle-aged man, un- 
armed, but booted and spurred, pushed past him 
into the room, and Lord Willoughby exclaimed, 
“Ha, Dorset! what brings you from France 1 
Has aught gone amiss 1” 

There was some cause for the latter ques- 
tion ; for there was more than haste in the ex- 
pression of the Earl of Dorset’s countenance : 
there was grief, and there was anxiety. 

With a hasty step he advanced to Lord Wil- 
loughby, laid his hand upon his arm, and said 
something in a low voice which Agnes did not 
hear. The old lord started back with a look of 
sorrow and consternation. “Dead!” he ex- 
claimed. “ Dead ! So young — so full of life — 
so needful to his people. Dorset, Dorset; in 
God’s name, say that my ears have deceived 
me. Killed in battle, ha ! Some random bolt 
from that petty town of Cone, whither he was 
marching when last I heard. It must be so. 
He, like the great Richard, was doomed to find 
such a fate — to fall before an insignificant ham- 
let by a peasant's hand. He exposed himself 
too much, Dorset — he exposed himself too 
much.” 

Dorset shook his head: “No,” he replied, 

“ he died of sickness in his bed ; but like a sol- 
dier and a hero still — calmly, courageously, 
without a faltering thought or sickly fear. 
Heaven rest his soul : we shall never have a 
greater or a better king. But harkee, Willough- 
by, I must go on at once and summon the 
council. Come you up with all speed ; for 
there will be much matter for anxious delibera- 
tion, and need of wise heads, and much experi- 
ence.” 

“I will, I will,” replied Lord Willoughby. 

“ Ho, boy ! without there. Get my horses ready 
with all speed. Farewell, Dorset; I will join 
you in half an hour. Now— Odds’ life, my sweet 
young lady, I had forgot your presence. What 
w'as it we were saying 1 Oh, I remember now. 
The course of earthly events is very strange. 
That which brings tears to some eyes wipes 
them away from others. Come hither ; I will 
write a note to your young guardian, and none 
but yourself shall be its bearer. My duty to my 
king is done, and I am free to act as I will. 
Stay for it ; it shall be very short.” 

He then drew a scrap of paper toward him, 


106 


AGNES SOREL. 


and wrote slowly, “The ransom of the Baron 
De Brecy is diminished one half. \ 

“ In witness whereof I have set my hand. 

“ Willoughby.” 

“There, take it, dear child,” he said, “and 
let him thank God, and thank you ;” and draw- 
ing her toward him, he imprinted a kind and fa- 
therly kiss upon her forehead, and then led her 
courteously to the door. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Sometimes very small and insignificant oc- 
currences, even when anticipated and prepared 
for, produce mighty and unforeseen consequen- 
ces ; sometimes great and startling events the 
least expected, and the least provided against, 
pass away quietly without producing any im- 
mediate result. 

Henry the Fifth of England had returned to 
France in high health, had triumphed over all 
enemies, and had used the very storms and 
tempests of passion and faction as instruments 
of his will. All yielded before him ; victory 
seemed his right ; health and long life his priv- 
ilege ; and success the obedient servant of his 
will. No one contemplated a change — no one 
even dreamed of a reverse; defeat was never 
thouglitof; death was never mentioned. 'I'here 
was no expectation, no preparation. But in 
tlie midst of triumph, and activity, and energet- 
ic power, he was touched by the transforming 
wand of sickness. Few hours were allowed 
him to set his house in order ; and in the prime 
of life and the midst of glory, the successful gen- 
eral, the gallant knight, the wise statesman, the 
ambitious king closed his eyes upon the world, 
and notliing but a mighty name remained. 

What changes might have been expected to 
follow an event so little contemplated ! Yet 
very few, if any, occurred. His last hours, 
while writhing on a bed of pain, sufficed to reg- 
ulate all the affairs of two great kingdoms, and 
his wisdom and foresight, as well as his energy 
and resolution, were never more strongly dis- 
played than on the bed of death. All remained 
quiet ; the sceptre of England passed from the 
hand of the hero to the hand of the child ; and in 
France no popular movement of any importance 
showed that the people were awakened to the 
value of the chances before them. All remained 
quiescent ; the vigorous and unsparing hand of 
Bedford seemed no less strong than had been 
tliat of his departed brother; and, reduced to a 
few' remote provinces, the party of the dauphin 
was powerless and inert. 

It was while this state continued, that three 
persons entered the old hall of the chateau of 
Brecy just as the sun w’as going down. The 
elder lady leaned with a feeble and fatigued air 
upon the arm of Jean Charost ; Agnes had both 
her hands clasped upon his other arm, and all 
three paused at the door, and looked round 
with an expression, if not somewhat sad, some- 
w’hat anxious. All w-ere very glad to be there 
again ; all were very glad to be even in France 
once more. But three years make a great dif- 
ference in men, in countries, and in places ; and 
when we return to an ancient dwelling-place, 
we are more conscious, perhaps, of the work- 


ings of time man at any other period. We feel 
within ourselves that w'e are changed, and we 
expect to find a change in external objects also 
— we look to see a stone fallen from the walls, 
the moss or mildew upon the paneling, the mon- 
itory dust creeping over the floor, the symp 
toms of alteration and decay apparent in the 
place of cherished memories. 

There was nothing of the kind, how'ever, to 
be seen in the old hall of the chateau of De 
Brecy. The evening rays of sunshine gliding 
through the windows shone cheerfully against 
the wall ; the room w’as swept and garnished. 
All was neat and in good array ; and it seemed 
as if, from that little circumstance alone, Hope 
relighted her lamp for their somewhat despond- 
ent hearts. 

“ There may be bright days before us yet, my 
son,” said Madame de Brecy, in a calm, grave 
tone. 

“Oh, yes, there will be bright days,” said 
Agnes, warmly and enthusiastically. “ We are 
back in France — fair bright France ; we are 
back, safe and w'ell, and there must be happy 
days for us yet.” 

“ I w'onder,” said Jean Charost, thoughtfully, 
“ who has kept up the place so carefully. We 
left but poor old Augustine, incapable of much 
exertion. The friendly offices of Jacques Cceur 
must have had a hand in this.” 

“Not much, sir,” said a voice behind him; 
“if that very excellent gentleman w'ill permit 
me to say so.” 

Jean Charost turned round, and perceived 
Jacques Coeur himself entering the hall with a 
stout little man in a gardener’s habit. I say a 
gardener’s habit, because in those blessed days, 
called the good old times, which had their ex- 
cellences as well as their defects, you could tell 
a man’s trade, calling, profession, or degree — 
at least usually — by his dress. It was a. good 
habit, it was a beneficial habit, it was an honest 
habit. You could never mistake a priest for a 
life-guardsman, nor a shop-boy for a prime min- 
ister — nor the reverse. In our own times, alas 
—in our days of liberty (approaching license), 
equality (founded upon the grossest delusion), 
and fraternity (which, as far as we have seen 
it carried, is the fraternity of Cain), we are al- 
lowed to disguise ourselves as we will, to sail 
under any false colors that may suit us, to cheat, 
and swindle, and lie, and deceive in whatever 
garb may seem best fitted for our purpose. The 
vanity and hypocrisy of the multitude have tri- 
umphed not only altogether over sumptuary 
laws, but, in a great part, over custom itself; 
and I know nothing that a man may not assume, 
except the queen’s crown, and God protect that 
for her, and for her race forever ! 

The gardener’s habit, however, with the blue 
cloth stockings bound on with leathern straps, 
was so apparent in the present instance, that 
Jean Charost, who was unconscious of having 
a gardener, could not for an instant conceive 
wlu) the personage was, till the face of Martin 
Grille, waxen like that of the moon at the end 
of the second quarter, grew distinct to recollec- 
tion. 

“He says true, my good friend, Monsieur de 
Brecy,” said Jacques Cceur, “and right glad I 
am, bis care should have so provided that 
your first sight of your own house, on your rtj- 


AGNES SOREL. 


107 


turn from captivity should be a pleasant one. 
The only share I have had in this, as your agent, 
has been to let him do what he would.” 

” ’Tis explained in a word, sir,” said Martin 
Grille. “You told me you could not aff’ord to 
keep me while you were a prisoner; and I 
thought I could atford to keep myself, out of the 
waste ground about the castle, and keep the 
castle in good order too. 1 had always a fancy 
for gardening w'hen I was a boy, and had once 
a whole crop of beans in an old sauce-pan, (}n 
the top of the garret where my mother lived in 
Paris. The first five sous I ever had in my life 
w’as for an ounce of onion seed which I raised 
in a cracked pitcher. I was intended by nature 
for digging the earth, and not for digging holes 
in other people’s bodies ; and the towm of Bour- 
ges ow'es me some of the best cabbages that 
ever were grown, when I am quite sure I should 
have reaped any thing but a crop of glory if I 
had cultivated the fields of war. How'ever, 
here I am, ready to take up the trade of valet 
again, if you will let me; and, to show that I 
hav^e not forgotten the mystery, I rubbed up all 
your old arms last night, brushed coats, man- 
tles, jerkins, houseaux, and every thing else I 
could find, and swept up every room in the 
house to save poor old Augustine’s unbendable 
back.” 

In more ways than one, the house was well 
prepared for the return of its lord, and, thanks 
to the care of good Martin Grille, a very com- 
fortable supper had not been forgotten. It w'as 
a strange sensation, however, for Jean Charost, 
when the sun had gone down and* the sconces 
were lighted, to sit once more in his own hall, 
a free man, with friendly faces all about hinr — 
a pleasant sensation, and yet somewhat over- 
powering. The tears stood in Madame De Bre- 
cy’s eyes more than once during that evening; 
but Agnes, whose spirits were light, and who 
had fewer memories, was full of gay joyful- 
ness. 

Jean Charost himself was very calm ; but he 
often thought, had he been alone, he could have 
wept too. 

Thus some thought and some feeling was 
given to personal things ; but the fate, the state, 
the history of his country during his absence 
occupied no small portion of his attention. In 
those days news traveled slowly. Great facts 
were probably more accurately stated and 
known than even now ; for there was no com- 
plicated machinery for the dissemination of 
falsehood, no public press wielded by party 
spirit for the purpose of adulterating the true 
with the false. A certain generosity, too, had 
survived the pure chivalrous ages, and men, 
even during life, could attribute high and noble 
qualities to an enemy ; but details were gener- 
ally lost. Jean Charost was anxious to hear 
those details, and when they gathered round 
the great chimney and the blazing hearth — for 
it was now October, and the nights were frosty 
— Jacques Cceur undertook to give his young 
friend some account of all that had taken place 
in France since the battle of Azincourt, some- 
what to the following effect. 

“You remember well, my friend,” he said, 
“that, after the fall of Harfleur, John of Bur- 
gundy only escaped the name of traitor by a 
lukewarm offer to join his troops to those of 


France in defense of the realm. But he was 
distrusted, and probably not without cause. 
You were already a prisoner in England when 
the Orleanist party obtained entire preponder- 
ance at the court, and the young duke being in 
captivity like yourself, the leading of that fac- 
tion was assumed by his father-in-law, the 
Count of Armagnac. Rapid, great, and peril- 
ous was his rise, and fearless, bold, and bloody 
he showed himself The sword of constable 
placed the whole military power of France at 
liis disposal, and the death of the dauphin Lou- 
is left him no rival in authority or favor. Hap- 
py had it been for him had he contented him- 
self with military authority; but he must grasp 
the finances too; and in the disastrous state 
of the revenues of the crown, the imposts, only 
justified by a hard necessity, raised him up 
daily enemies. His rude and merciless sever- 
ity, too, irritated even more than it alarmed, 
and it was not long before all those who bad 
been long indifferent went to swell the ranks of 
his adversaries. True, his party was strong ; 
true, hatred of the Burgundian faction was in- 
tense in a multitude of Frenchmen. But the 
great lords, and many of the princes attached 
to the house of Orleans, were absent and pow- 
erless in English prisons By every means that 
policy and duplicity could suggest, John of Bur- 
gundy strove to augment tlie number of his 
friends. All tliose who fled from the persecu- 
tion of Armagnac were received by him with 
joy and treated with distinction. He increased 
his forces ; he hovered about Paris ; he treated 
the orders of the court to retire, if not with con- 
tempt, with disobedience. At length, however, 
he seemed to give up the hope of making him- 
self master of the capital, and retreated sudden- 
ly into Artois. 

“Not judging his enemy rightly, the Count 
of Armagnac resolved to seize the opportunity 
of an open path, in order to strike a blow for 
the recovery of Harfleur ; and, leaving a strong 
garrison in Paris, be set out upon his expedi- 
tion. No sooner was he gone, than John of 
Burgundy hastened to profit by his absence, and 
rapid negotiations took place between hinp and 
his partisans within the walls of Paris. You 
know the turbulent and factious nature of the 
lower order of citizens in the capital. Many of 
them w’ere animated with mistaken zeal for the 
house of Burgundy ; more were eager for plun- 
der, or thirsty for blood ; and one of the dark- 
est and most detestable plots that ever black- 
ened the page of history W'as formed for the 
destruction of the wJiole Armagnac party, and 
that, too, with the full cognizance of the Duke 
of Burgundy. It was determined that, at a cer- 
tain hour, the conspirators should appear in 
arms in the streets of Paris, seize upon the 
queen, the king, and the young dauphin, John, 
murder the whole of the Armagnac faction, and, 
after having seized the Duke of Berri and the 
King of Sicily, load them with chains, and make 
a spectacle of them in the streets of Paris 
mounted on an ox, and then put them to death 
likewise. 

“The plot was frustrated by the fears or re- 
morse of a woman, within a few minutes of the 
hour appoint(?d fur its execution. Precautions 
w'ere taken ; the royal family placed in safety ; 
and J'anneguy dn Chatel, at the head of his 


108 


AGNES SOREL. 


troops, issued forth from the Bastile, and made 
himself master of the houses and the persons 
of the conspirators. There was no mercy, my 
friend, for any one who was found in arms. 
Some suffered by the cord or hatchet, some 
were drowned in the Seine ; and Armagnac re- 
turning, added to the chastisement already in- 
flicted on individuals, the punishment of the 
whole city of Paris. Suspicion was received 
as proof, indifference became a crime, the pris- 
ons were filled to overflowing, and the very 
name of Burgundian was proscribed. The 
troops of the Duke of Burgundy, which had ap- 
proached the city of Paris, were attacked in the 
open field, and civil war, in its most desolating 
aspect, raged all around the metropolis. 

“ Every sort of evil seemed poured out upon 
France, as if all the fountains of Heaven's 
wrath were opened to rain woes upon the land. 
Another dauphin was snatched away from us, 
and rumors of poison were very general ; but 
the death of one prince was very small in com- 
parison with the treason of another. There is 
no doubt, De Brecy, that John of Burgundy, 
frustrated in his attempt upon Paris, entered 
into a league with the enemies of his country, 
and secretly recognized Henry of England as 
king of France. Dissensions arose between the 
queen and the Count of Armagnac, in which our 
present dauphin, Charles, was so far compro- 
mised as to incur the everlasting hatred of his 
mother. Burgundy, the queen, and England, 
united for the destruction of the dauphin and 
the Count of Armagnac, and vengeance and 
ambition combined for the final ruin of the coun- 
try. The politic King of England took advant- 
age of all, and marched on from conquest to 
conquest throughout Normandy, while, by slow 
degrees, the Duke of Burgundy approached 
nearer and nearer to the capital. The perils by 
which he was surrounded appeared to deprive 
Armagnac of judgment: he seemed possessed 
of the fury of a wild beast, and little doubt ex- 
ists that he meditated a general massacre of 
the citizens of Paris. But his crimes were cut 
short by the crimes of others. The troops of 
Burgundy were in possession of Pontoise. A 
well-disposed and peaceable young man, insult- 
ed and injured by a follow’er of Armagnac, found 
means to introduce his enemies into the city of 
Paris At the first cry of Burgundy, thousands 
rose to deliver themselves from the tyranny un- 
der which they groaned, and, headed by a man 
named Caboche, retaliated, in a most fearful 
manner, on the party of Armagnac, the evils 
which it had inflicted. The prisons w'ere filled ; 
the streets ran with blood ; and the Count of 
Armagnac, himself forced to fly, was concealed 
for a few hours by a mason, only to be deliver- 
ed up in the end. The queen and the Duke of 
Burgundy encouraged the massacre ; the pris- 
ons w'ere broken into, the prisoners murdered 
in cold blood ; the Chatelet was set on fire, and 
the unhappy captives within its walls were 
driven back into the flames at the point of the 
pike ; and the leaders of the Armagnac faction 
were dragged through the streets for days be- 
fore they were torn to pieces by the people. 
Tanneguy du Chatel alone showed courage and 
discretion, and obtained safety, if not success. 
He rescued the dauphin in the midst of the tu- 
mult, placed him in safety at Melon, returned 


to the capital, fought gallantly for some hours 
against the insurgents and the troops of Bur- 
gundy, and then retired to counsel and support 
his prince. The queen and the Duke of Bur- 
gundy entered the city in triumph ; flowers were 
strewed before her on the blood-stained streets ; 
and a prince of the blood-royal of France was 
I seen grasping familiarly the hands of low-born 
murderers. But the powers, which he had 
raised into active virulence, were soon found 
ungovernable by the Duke of Burgundy, and he 
determined first to weaken, and then to de- 
stroy them. The troops of assassins fancied 
themselves soldiers, because they were butch- 
ers, and demanded to be led against the enemy. 
The duke was right willing to gratify them, and 
sent forth two bands of many thousands each. 
The first was beaten and nearly cut to pieces by 
the Armagnac troops. The remnant murdered 
their leaders in their rage of disappointment, but 
did not profit by the experience they had gained. 
The second party were defeated with terrible 
loss, and fled in haste to Paris; but the gates 
were shut against them; and dispersing, they 
joined the numerous bands of plunderers that 
infested the country, and were pursued and 
slaughtered by the troops of Burgundy. Thus 
weakened, the insurgents, who had brought 
back the Duke of Burgundy to Paris, were eas- 
ily subjugated by the duke himself; their lead- 
ers perished on the scaffold ; and thousands of 
the inferior villains were swept away by various 
indirect means. A still more merciless scourge, 
however, than either Armagnac or Burgundy 
was about to smite the devoted city — a scourge 
that spared no party, respected no rank or sta- 
tion. The plague appeared in the capital, and, 
in the space of a few months, the grave received 
more than a hundred thousand persons of every 
age, class, and sex. In some of these events 
perished Caboche, the uncle of your servant 
Martin Grille, who, with the courage of a lion 
and the fierceness of a tiger, combined some 
i talents, which, better employed, might have 
won him an honorable name in history.” 

“And what has become of his sonl” asked 
Jean Charost. “ He was attached, I think, to 
the court of the queen.” 

“He left her,” answered Jacques Coeur, “and 
i came hither to Bourges with Marie of Anjou, the 
wife of the dauphin, when that prince removed 
' from Melon to Bourges You know somewhat 
: of what happened after — how his highness was 
driven hence to Poictiers, how negotiations took 
place to reunite the royal family ; how divided 
counsels, ambitions, and jealousies prevented 
any thing like union against the real enemy of 
France ; how, step by step, the English king 
made himself master of all the country, almost 
to the gates of Paris. You were present, I am 
told, at the death of the Duke of Burgundy — 
shall 1, or shall 1 not call it murder 1 Well had 
he deserved punishment — well had he justified 
almost any means to deliver France from the 
blasting influence of his ambition. But at the 
very moment chosen for vengeance, he showed 
some repentance for his past crimes, some in- 
t clination to atone, and perhap.s the very eflTecls 
of his remorse placed his life in the hands of 
his adversaries. Would to God that act had 
not been committed.” 

“ And what has followed 1” asked Jean Cha- 


AGNES SOREL. 


109 


rost. “I have heard but little since, except 
that at Arras a treaty was concluded by which 
the crown of France was virtually transferred 
to the King of England on his marriage with 
the Princess Catharine.” 

“ The scene is confused and indistinct,” said 
Jacques Cceur, “like the advance of a cloud 
overshadowing the land, and leaving all vague 
and misty behind it. Far from serving the 
cause of the dauphin, far from serving the cause 
of France, the deatli of the Duke of Burgundy 
has produced unmitigated evil to all. His son ! 
has considered vengeance rather than justice, 
the memory of his father, rather than the hap- 
piness of his country. Leagued with the queen, 
and with the King of England, he has sought 
nothing but the destruction of the dauphin, and 
has seen the people of France swear allegiance 
to a foreign conqueror whom his connivance ' 
enabled to triumph. From conquest to con- 
quest the King of England has gone on, till al- 
most all the northern part of France was his, 
and the River Loire is the boundary between 
two distinct kingdoms. Here and there, indeed, 
a large town and a strong fortress is possess- 
ed by one party in the districts where the other 
dominates, and a border warfare is carried on | 
along the banks of the river. But for a long time ' 
previous to King Henry’s death, fortune seem- 
ed to follow wherever he trod, and the whole 
western as well as northern parts of France 
were being gradually reduced beneath his sway. 
During a short absence in England, indeed, a 
false promise of success shone upon the arms 
of the dauphin. A re-enforcement of six thou- 
san<l men from Scotland enabled him to keep | 
the field with success, and the victory of Bauge, j 
the death of the Duke of Clarence, and the re- 
lief of Angers, gave hope to every loyal heart 
in France. Money, indeed, was wanting, and 
I was straining every nerve to obtain for my 
prince the means of carrying on the war, when 
the return of Henry, and his rapid successes in 
Saintonge and the Limousin cut me off from a 
large part of the resources I had calculated 
upon, and once more plunged us all into de- 
spair. The last effort in arms was the siege i 
of Cone, on the Loire, garrisoned by the Bur- 
gundian troops. The dauphin presented him- 
self before its walls in person, and the Duke of 
Burgundy marched to its relief, calling on his 
English allies for aid. Henry was not slow to 
grant it, and set out froni Senlis to show his 
readiness and his friendship. Death struck 
him, it is true, hy the way ; but even in death 
he seemed to conquer, and Cone was relieved 
as he breathed his last at Vincennes. Happily 
have you escaped, De Brecy ; for had the Lord 
Willoughby received intimation of the king’s 
dying commands before he freed you, you would 
have lingered many a long year in prison. Well 
knowino- that the captives of Azincourt would 
afford formidable support to the party of the 
dauphin as soon as liberated, it has always been 
Henry’s policy to detain them in London, and 
almost his last words were an order not to set 
them free till his infant son had attained his 
majority. You are the only one, I believe, 
above the rank of a simple esquire who has 
been permitted to return to France.” 

“ I owe it all to this dear girl,” answered 
Jean Charost, laying his hand upon the little 


hand of Agnes. “ She w'ent to plead for me at 
a happy moment. But where is the dauphin 
nowl He needs the arm of every gentleman 
in France, and I will not be long absent from 
his army.” 

“ Army!” said Jacques Cceur, with a melan- 
choly shake of the head. “ Alas ! De Brecy, 
he has no army. Dispirited, defeated, almost 
penniless, seeing the fairest portions of his fa- 
ther’s dominions in the hands of an enemy — 
that father’s name and authority used against 
him — his own mother his most rancorous foe, 
the Duke of Burgundy at the head of one army 
in the field, and the Duke of Bedford, hardly in- 
ferior to the great Henry, leading another, he 
has retired, almost hopeless, to the lonely Cas- 
tle of Polignac ; and strives, I am told, but 
strives in vain, to forget the adversities of the 
past, and the menaces of the future, in empty 
pleasures. An attempt must be made to rouse 
him ; but I can do nothing till I have obtained 
those means, without which all action would be 
hopeless. To Paris I dare not venture myself ; 
but I have agents there, friends who will aid 
me, and wealth locked up in many enterprises. 
Diligently have I labored during the last month 
to gather all resources together ; but still I lin- 
ger on in Bourges without receiving any answer 
to my numerous letters.” 

“Can not I go to Paris'!” asked Jean Cha- 
rost. “You know, my friend of old, that I want 
no diligence, and had once some skill in such 
business as yours.” 

Jacques Cceur paused thoughtfully, and then 
answered, “ It might, perhaps, be as well. You 
have been so long absent, your person would be 
unknown. When could you set outl” 

Jean Charost replied that he would go the 
very next day ; and the conversation was still 
proceeding upon these plans, when the sound 
of a horse’s feet was heard in the castle court, 
and in a minute or two*after, a tall, elderly 
weather-beaten man was brought in by Martin 
Grille. Jean Charost looked at him, thinking 
that he recognized the face of Armand Chauvin, 
the chevaucheur of the late Duke of Orleans ; 
but the man walked straight up to Jacques 
Cceur, put a letter in his hand, and then turned 
his eyes to the ground, without giving one 
glance to those around. 

“ This is good news, indeed,” said Jacques, 
who had read the letter by the light of a sconce. 
“ A hundred thousand crowns, and two hundred 
thousand more in a month I What with the 
money from Marseilles we may do something 
yet. This is good news indeed !” 

“I have more news yet,” said Chauvin, 
gravely. “Hark, in your ear, Messire Jacques. 
1 have hardly eaten or drank, and have not slept 
a wink from the gates of Paris to Bourges, and 
Bourges hither, all to bring you these tidings 
speedily. Hark in your ear!” and he whisper- 
ed something to Jacques Cceur. The other list- 
ened attentively, gave a very slight start, and 
appeared somewhat, but not greatly moved. 

“ God rest his soul !” he said, at length 
“He has had a troublous life — God rest his 
soul !” 



110 


AGNES SOREL. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Who has not heard of the beautiful Allierl . 
Who has not heard of the magnificent Au- i 
vergne ■? But the horseman stopped not to 
gaze at the mountains round him. He lingered 
not upon the banks of the stream ; he hardly 
gave more than a glance at the rich Limagne. 
At Clermont, indeed, he halted for two whole 
hours, but it was an enforced halt, for his horse 
liroke down with hard riding, and all the time 
was spent in purchasing another. A crust of 
bread and a cup of wine afforded the only refresh- 
ment he himself took, and on he went through | 
the vineyards and the orchards, loaded with the 
last fruits of autumn. At Issoire he gave his 
horse hay and water, and then rode on at great , 
speed to Lempole, but passed by its mighty ba- 
saltic rock, crowned with its castle, though he 
looked up with feelings of interest and regret as 
he connected it with the memory of Louis of 
Orleans. At Brioude he was forced to pause j 
for a while ; but his horse fed readily, and on 
he went again, out of the narrow streets of that 
straggling, disagreeable towm, over the mount- 
ains, through the valleys, with vast volcanic 
forms all around him, and hamlets and villages 
built of the dark gray lava, hardly distinguisha- 
ble from the rocks on which they stood. More 
than seventy miles he rode on straight from 
Clermont, and drew not a rein between Brioude 
and Puy, which hurst upon his sight suddenly 
on the eastern declivity of the mountains, with 
its ricti, unrivaled amphitheatre, and its three 
rivers flowing away at the foot. The sun was 
within a hand’s breadth of the horizon. All the 
valleys seen from that elevation were flooded 
with light ; the old cathedral itself looked like 
a resplendent amethyst, and devout pilgrims to 
the miraculous shrine still crowded the streets, 
some turning on their way homeward, some 
mounting the innumerable steps to say one 
prayer more at the feet of the Virgin. 

Jean Charost rode straight up to the little old 
inn — small and miserable as compared with 
many of the vast buildings appropriated in those 
days to the reception of tlie traveler in France, 
and still smaller in proportion to the number of 
devout persons who daily flocked into the city. 
But then the landlord argued that the pilgrims 
came for grace, and not for good living, and that 
therefore the body must put up with what it 
could get, if the soul was taken caVe of Jean 
passed under the archway into the court-yard, 
gave his horse to an hostler of precisely the 
same stamp as the man who afforded a type 
to Shakspeare, and then, turning back toward 
the street, met the host in the door-way, pre- 
pared to tell him that he must wait long for sup- 
per, and put up with a garret. 

“ I want nothing at present, my good friend,” 
replied Jean Charost, “ but a cup of wine, which 
is ready at all times, and some one to show me 
my way on foot to Espaly. Indeed, I should not 
have turned in here at all, but that my horse 
could go no further.” I 

“All, sir,” cried the host, with his civility | 
and curiosity both awakened together ; “ so you j 
are going to see Monseigneur le Dauphin 1 ; 
News now, I warrant, and good, I hope — pray, ■ 
w’hat is.it I” 

“ Excellent good,” replied Jean Charost. . 


“ First, that a thirsty man talks ill with a dry 
mouth ; and, secondly, that a wise man never 
gives his message except to the person it is 
sent to. J'he dauphin will be delighted with 
these tidings ; and so now give me a cup of 
wine, and some one to show me the way.” 

“Ha, you are a wag!” said the landlord; 
“ but harkee, sir ; you had better take my mule. 
It will be ready while I am drawing the wine, 
and you drinking it. Though they say, ‘Espa- 
ly, near Puy,’ it is not so near as they call it. 
My boy shall go with you on a quick-trotting 
ass to bring back the mule.” 

“And the news,” said Jean Charost, “ if he 
can get it. So be it, however ; for, good sooth ! 
I am tired. I have not slept a wink for six- 
and-lliirty hours ; hut let them make all haste.” 

“ As quick as an avalanche, sir,” said the 
landlord ; “ and God speed you, if you bring 
good news to our noble prince. He loves wine 
and women, and is exceedingly devout to the 
blessed Virgin of Puy ; so all men should wish 
him well, and all ladies too.” 

The landlord did really make haste, and in 
less than ten minutes Jean Charost was on his 
way to Espaly, along a sort of natural volcanic 
causeway which paves the bottom of the deep 
valley The sun was behind the hills, but still 
a cool and pleasant light was spread over the 
sky, and the towers of the old castle, with their 
many weather cocks, and a banner displayed on 
the top of the donjon, rising high above the lit- 
tle village at the foot of the rock, seemed to 
catch some of the last rays of the sun, and 
“ Flash back again the western blaze, 

In lines of dazzling light.” 

The ascent was steep, however, and longer 
than the young gentleman had expected. It 
was dim twilight when he approached the gates, 
hut there was little guard kept around this 
last place of refuge of the son of France. 
Nested in the mountains of Auvergne, with a 
enemies, Charles had no fear of attack. The 
long, expanse of country between him and his 
gates were wide op^n, not a solitary sentinel 
guarded the way, and .Jean Charost rode into 
the court-yard, looking round in vain for some 
one to address. Not a soul was visible. He 
heard the sound of a lute, and a voice singing 
from one of the tow-ers, and a merry peal of 
laughter from a long, low building on the right 
of the great court ; but besides this there was 
nothing to show that the castle w'as inhabited, 
till, just as he was dismounting, a page, gayly 
tricked out in blue and silver, crossed from one 
tower toward another, with a bird-cage in his 
hand. 

“Ho, boy!” cried Jean Charost; ‘-can you 
tell me where I shall find the servant of Made- 
moiselle De St. Geran ; or can you tell her your- 
self that the Seigneur de Brecy wishes to speak 
with her1” 

“ Come with me, come with me. Beau Sire,” 
said the boy, with all the flippant gayeiy of a 
page. “ I am going to her with this bird from 
his highness ; and this castle is the abode of lib- 
erty and joy. All iron coats and stiff habitudes 
have been cast down in the chapel, and a voW’ 
against idle ceremony is made by every one un- 
der the great gate.” 

“ Well, then, lead on,” said Jean Cha.'-ost 
“My business might well abridge ceremony. If 


AGNES SOREL. 


Ill 


any did exist. Wait here till I return,” he con- 
tinued, speaking to the innkeeper’s son ; and 
then followed the page upon his way. 

The tower to which tlie boy led him was a 
building of considerable size, although it looked 
diminutive by the side of the great donjon, 
which towered above, and with which it was 
connected by a long gallery, in a sort of trav- 
erse commanding the entrance of the outer 
gate. The door stood open, as most of the oth- 
er doors throughout the place, leading into an 
old vaulted passage, from the middle of which 
rose a narrow and steep stair-case of gray stone. 

A rope was twisted round the pillar on which the 
stair-case turned ; and it was somewhat neces- 
sary at that moment, for. to say sooth, both pas- 
sage and stair case were as dark as Acheron. 
Feeling his way, the boy ascended till he came 
to a door on the first floor of the tower, which 
he opened without ceremony. The interior of 
the room which this sudden movement dis- 
played, though darkness was fast falling over 
the earth, was clear and light compared with 
the shadowy air of the stair-case, and Jean 
Cbarost could see. seated thoughtfully at the 
window, that lovely and never-to-be-forgotten 
form which he had last beheld at Monterreau. 
Agnes Sorel either did not hear the opening of 
the door, or judged that the comer was one of 
the ordinay attendants of the place, for she re- 
mained motionless, plunged in deep meditation, 
with her eyes raised to a solitary star, the van- 
ward leader of the host of heaven, which was 
becoming brighter and brighter every moment, 
as it rose high above the black masses of the 
Anis Mountains. 

“ Madam, here is a bird for you which his 
highness has sent,” said the page, abruptly. 
“Some say it is a nightingale; and, though his 
coat is not fine, he sings deliciously.” 

Agnes Sorel turned as the boy spoke, but she 
looked not at him, or the cage, or the bird, for 
her eyes instantly rested upon the figure of Jean 
Charost, as he advanced toward her, apologizing 
for his intrusion. Though what light there was 
fell full upon him through the open window, it | 
was too dark for her to distinguish his features ; ! 
but bis voice she knew as soon as he spoke, ' 
though she had heard it but rarely. ^ Yet there ! 
are some sounds which linger in the ear of mem- 
ory — echoes of the past, as it were — which in- I 
stantly carry us back ‘to other days, and recall 
circumstances, thoughts, and feelings long gone . 
by, with a brightness which needs no eye to seej 
them but tlie eye of the mind. The voice of i 
Jean Charost was a very peculiar voice — soft, 
and full, and mellow, but rounded and distinct, 
like the tones of an organ, possessing — if such a 
tiling be permitted me to say — a melody in itself 

“Monsieur de Brecy !” she exclaimed, “I 
am rejoiced to see you here— no longer a pris- 
oner, I hope — no longer seeking ransom, but a 
free man. But what brings you to this remote 
corner of the earth 1 Some generous motive, 
doubtless. Patriotism, perhaps, and love of 
your prince. Alas ! De Brecy, patriotism finds 
cold welcome where pleasure reigns alone ; and 
as to love — would to God your prince loved 
himself as others love him !” 

“ What shall I say to his highness, madam ?” 
asked the boy, whom she had hardly noticed ; 

“ what shall I say about the bird 


“Tell him,”* replied Agnes, rising quickly 
from her seat — “ tell him that if I am a good in- 
structor, 1 will teach that bird to sing a song 
which shall rouse all France in arms— Ay, little 
as it is, and feeble as may be its voice, I am not 
more powerful, my voice is not more strong; 
and yet — I hope — 1 hope — Get thee gone, boy. 
Tell his highness what I have said — tell him 
what you will — say I am half mad, if it please 
you ; for so I am, to sit here idly looking at 
that mountain and that star, and to think that 
the banners of England are waving trium[)hanl 
over the bloody fields of France. Well, De 
Brecy — well,” she continued, as the boy re- 
tired and closed the door. “What news from 
the court of the conquerors? What news from 
the proud city of London ^ We have lost our 
Henry ; but we have got a John in exchange. 
What matters Christian names in these un- 
christian times? A Plantagenet is a Planta- 
genet ; and they are an iron race to deal with, 
which requires more steel, I fear, than we have 
left in France.” 

“My news, dear lady,” replied Jean Charost, 
“is not from London, but from Paris.” 

“Well, what of Paris, then?” asked Agnes 
Sorel, in an indifferent tone, taking another seat 
partly turned from the window. “Let me ask 
you to ring that bell upon the table. It is grow- 
ing dark — we must have lights. One star is 
not enough, bright as it may be — even the star 
of love — one star is not enough to give us light 
in this darksome world.” 

Jean Charost rang the bell; but ere any at- 
tendant could appear, he said, hurriedly, “ Dear 
lady, listen to me for one moment : 1 bring im- 
portant news.” 

“ Good or bad?” asked Agnes Sorel, quickly. 

“ One half is unmingled good,” answered Jean 
Charost ; “ the other is of a mixed nature, full 
of hope, yet alloyed with sorrow.” 

“ Even that is better than any we have lately 
had,” replied Agnes. “Nevertheless, I am a 
woman, De Brecy, and fond of joy. Give me 
the uumingled first : we will temper it here- 
after.” 

“ Well, then, dear lady, I am sent to tell his 
highness, from our good friend Jacques Cceur, 
that a hundred thousand crowns of the sun are 
by this time waiting his pleasure at Moulins, and 
that two hundred thousand more will be there 
in one month.” 

” Joy, joy,” cried Agnes, clasping her hands ; 
“oh, this is joyful indeed! But then,” she 
added, “Heaven send that it be used aright. I 
fear — oh, I fear — Nay, nay, I will fear no more. ! 
It is undeserved misfortune crushes the noble 
heart, bows the brave spirit, and takes its en- 
ergy away from greatness. Have you told him, 
De Brecy? What did he say? How did he 
look? Not with light joy, I hope'; but with 
grave, expectant satisfaction, as a prince should 
look who finds his people’s deliverance nigher 
than he thought.” 

“ I have not seen him,” replied De Brecy , 
“ first, because I knew not well how to gain ad- 
mission, and, secondly, because I wished that 
you should have the opportunity of telling him 
of a change of fortunes, hoping — knowing that 
you would direct his first impulses aright.” 

“I — I ?” exclaimed Agnes. “ Oh, De Brecy, 
De Brecy, 1 am unworthy of such a task ! How 


112 


AGNES SOREL. 


should I direct any one aright 1 Yet it matters 
not what I be — Weak, frail, faulty as I am 
— tlie courage and resolution, the energy and 
purpose, which once possessed me solely, shall, 
all that is left, be given to him and to France, 
One error shall not blot out all that is good in 
my nature. Ha! here come the lights — ” 

She paused for a moment or two, while the 
servant entered, placed lights upon the table, 
and retired ; and then, in a much calmer tone, 
resumed the discourse. 

“ I have been much moved to-day,” she said, 
“but even this brief pause of thought has been 
sufficient to show me the right way — Lights, you 
have done me service,” she added, with a grace- 
ful smile. “ Come, De Brecy, I will lead you 
to her who alone is worthy, and fitted to give 
these good tidings — to my friend — to my dear 
good friend — the princess, his wife,” 

“ But you have forgotten,” replied Jean Cha- : 
rost. “ I have other tidings to tell.” 

“Ha!” she said, “and those mingled — I did 
forget, indeed. Say what it is, De Brecy. We 
must not raise up hopes to dash them down 
again,” 

“ That will not be the effect,” said De Brecy. 
“The news I have is sad, yet full of hope, i 
That which has been wanting on the side of his ' 
highness and of France, in this terrible struggle ! 
against foreign enemies and internal traitors, i 
has been the king’s name. In his powerless 
incapacity, the mighty influence of the mon- ' 
arch’s authority has been arrayed against the 
friends, and for the foes of France. Dear lady, ^ 
it will be so no more !” 

“No more!” exclaimed Agnes, eagerly, and ' 
with her whole face lighting up. “ Has he been j 
snatched from their hands, then 1 Tell me, De 
Brecy, howl when 1 where 1 But you look i 
grave, nay, sad. Is the king deadl” 

“ Charles the Sixth is dead,” answered De 
Brecy. “ But Charles the Seventh lives to de- | 
liver France.” , 

“ Stay — stay,” said Agnes Sorel, seating her- | 
self again, and putting her hand thoughtfully 
to her brow. “ Poor king — poor man ! May i 
the grave give him peace ! Oh, what a life w^as , 
his, De Brecy ! Full of high qualities and kind- 
ly feelings, born to the throne of the finest realm 
in all the world, adored by his people, how 
bright were once his prospects ! and who w'ould 
ever have thought that the life thus begun 
would be passed in misery, madness, sickness, 
and neglect — that his power should be used for 
his own destruction — his name lead his enemies 
to battle against his son — his wife contemn, 
despise, and ill treat him, and his daughter wed 
his bitterest foe — that he should only wake from 
his insane trances to see his kinsmen murder 
and be murdered before his face, all his sons but 
one passing to the tomb before him — perchance 
by poison — and that he himself should follow 
before he reached old age, without that tend- 
ance in his lingering sickness that a common 
mechanic receives from tenderness, the beggar 
from charity I Oh, what a destiny !” 

“We might well weep for his life,” said De 
Brecy ; “ but we can not mourn his death. To 
him it was a blessing; to France it may be de- 
liverance. This news, however, you have now 
to carry to the king.” 

“True, true,” cried Agnes; but then she 


I paused a moment, and repeated his last words 
' with a thoughtful and anxious look. “To the 
king!” she said ; “to the king! No, I will take 
it to the queen, De Brecy. Come you with me, 
in case of question, and to receive those honors 
and rewards which are meet for him who brings 
such tidings. Ay, let us speak it plainly — such 
good tidings. For on these few words, ‘Cliafles 
the Sixth is dead,’ depends, I do believe, the sal- 
vation of our France.” 

As she spoke, she rose and moved toward 
the door, and De Brecy followed her down the 
stair-case, and through the long passage which 
connected rhe tower with the donjon. The 
yellow autumn moon peeped up above the hills, 
and poured its light upon them through the tall 
windows as they went. There was a solemn 
feeling in their hearts which prevented them 
from uttering a word. The way was somewhat 
lengthy, but at last Agnes stopped before a door 
and knocked. The sweet voice of Marie of 
Anjou bade them come in, and Agnes opened 
the door. 

“ Ah, my Agnes,” cried the princess, “ have 
you come to cheer mel I know not how it is, 
but I have felt very sad to-night. I have been 
moralizing, dear girl, and thinking how much 
happier I should have been had we possessed 
nothing but this castle and the demesne around, 
mere lords of a little patrimony, instead of see- 
ing kingdoms called our own, but to be snatched 
away from us. France seems going the w^ay 
of Sicily, my Agnes. But wlio is this you have 
with youl His face seems known to me” 

“You have seen him once before, madam,” 
said Agnes. “ He is the bringer of great tidings; 
but no lips but mine must give them to my 
queen ;” and, advancing gracefully, she knelt at 
the feet of Marie of Anjou, and kissed her hand, 
saying, “Madam, yo*u are Queen of France. His 
majesty, Charles the Sixth, has departed.” 

The queen stood as one stupefied ; for so oft- 
en had the unfortunate king been reported ill, 
and then recovered, so little was known of his 
real state beyond the walls of the Hotel St. Pol, 
and so slow was the progess of information in 
that part of France, that not a suspicion of the 
impending event had been entertained in the 
chateau of Espaly. After gazing in the face of 
Agnes for a moment, she cast down her eyes to 
the ground, remained for a brief space in deep 
thought, and then exclaimed, “ But, after all, 
what is he 1 A king almost without provisions, 
a general without an army, a ruler without 
power or means. Rise, rise, dear Agnes ;” and, 
casting her arms round her neck, Marie of An- 
jou shed tears. They were certainly not tears 
of sorrow for the departed, for she knew little 
of the late king; we do not even know from 
history that she had ever seen him;/ hut all 
sudden emotions must have voice, generally in 
laughter, or in tears. It has been very gener- 
ally remarked that joy has its tears as well as 
sorrow ; but few have ever scanned deeply the 
fountain-source from which those drops arise. 
Is it not that, like those of a sealed fountain 
unconsciously opened, they burst forth at once, 
to sparkle, perhaps, in the sunshine of the hour, 
but yet bear with them a certain chilliness from 
the depths out of which they arise"! 

Marie of Anjou recovered herself speedily ; 
and Agnes Sorel, rising from her knee, held »)ul 


AGNES SOREL. 


113 


he hand to Jean Charost, and presented him 
to the queen, saying, “ He brings you happier 
tidings, madam — tidings which, I trust, may 
give power to the sceptre just fallen into his 
majesty’s hand ; ay, and edge his sword to 
smite his enemies when they least expect it. 
By the skill and by the zeal of one I may ven- 
ture to call your friend as well as mine — noble 
Jacques Cceur — the means which have been so 
long wanting to make at least one generous ef- 
fort on behalf of France, are now secured. 
Speak, De Brecy — speak, and tell her majesty 
the joyful news you bear.” 

The young gentleman told his tale simply and 
well ; and when he had concluded, the queen, 
with all traces of sorrow passed away, ex- 
claimed, “ Let us hasten quick, dear Agnes, 
and carry the news to my husband ! There be 
some men fitted for prosperity, and he is one. 
Misfortune depresses him ; but this news will 
restore him all his energies. Oh, this castle 
of Espaly ! It has seemed to me a dungeon of 
the spirit, where chains were cast around the 
soul, and the fair daylight of hope came but as 
a ray through the loophole of a cell. Come 
with me — come with me, my friends! I need 
no attendants but you two.” 

Jean Charost raised a light from the table 
and opened the door, then followed along the 
dark passages till they reached a small hall upon 
the ground-floor, which the queen entered with- 
out waiting for announcement or permission. 
Her light step roused no one within from his 
occupation, and the whole scene was before her 
eyes ere any one engaged in it was aware of 
her presence. She might, perhaps, have seen 
another, less tranquil to look upon. At a table 
under a sconce, in one corner of the room, sat 
a young man reading the contents of a book 
richly illuminated. His cap and plume were 
thrown down by his side, his sword was cast 
upon a bench near, and his head was bent over 
the volume, with his eyes eagerly fixed upon 
the page, deciphering, probably with difficulty, 
the words which it presented. In another cor- 
ner of the room, far removed from the light, 
and with his shoulders supported by the angle 
of the building, sat Tanneguy du Chatel, sound 
asleep, but with his heavy sword resting on his 
knees, and his left hand lying upon the scab- 
bard. Nearer to the windows — some seven 
paces probably in advance — stood a boy dressed 
as a page, looking at what was going on at a 
table before him, but not venturing to approach 
too near. At that table, with a large candela- 
bra in the centre, sat a young gentleman of pow- 
erful frame, though still a mere lad, with a slight 
mustache on the upper lip, and his strong black 
hair curling round his forehead and temples. 
On the opposite side of the table, nearest to the 
page, was Charles the Seventh himself He 
was the only one in the room who wore his cap 
and plume, and to the eyes of Jean Charost — 
whether from prepossession or not, I can not 
tell— there seemed an air of dignity and grace 
about his youthful figure which well befitted the 
monarch. The thoughts of France, however, 
were evidently far away, and his whole atten- 1 
tion seemed directed to the narrow board before 
him, on which he was playing at chess with his 
cousin, the after-celebrated Dunois. 

Still the step of the queen and her compan- 

H 


ions did not rouse him : his whole soul seemed 
in the move he was about to make, and it was 
not till they were close by that he even looked 
round. 

Even then he did not speak, but turned his 
eyes upon the game again, and in the end moved 
his knight so as to protect the king. 

“ That is a good move,” said his wife, taking 
a step forward ; “ but some such move must 
be made speedily, my lord, upon a wider board.” 
Then, bending her knee, she added, “ God save 
his majesty. King Charles the Seventh 1” 

Charles started up, nearly overturning the 
board, and deranging all the pieces. “ What 
is it, Marie 1” he asked, looking almost aghast ; 
but Agnes Sorel and Jean Charost knelt at the 
same time, saying, “ God save your majesty ! 
He has done his will with your late father.” 

Up started Dunois, and waved his hand in 
the air, exclaiming, “God save the king!” and 
the other three in the chamber pressed around, 
repeating the same cry. 

Charles stood in the midst, gazing gravely on 
the different faces about him, then slowly drew 
his sword from the scabbard, and laid it on the 
table, saying, in a calm, thoughtful, resolute 
tone, “ Once more !” 


CHAPTER XL. 

How the news spread through the castle, I 
know not ; but Charles VH. had hardly recov- 
ered from the first surprise of the intelligence 
when, without waiting for permission or cere- 
mony, all whose station justified their admis- 
sion to the presence of the prince crowded into 
the little hall of Espaly. A bright and beauti- 
ful sight it presented at that moment ; for it 
was a court of youth and beauty, and not more 
than two or three persons present had seen 
thirty years of age. Hope and enthusiasm was 
in every countenance, and the heavy beams of 
the vault rang with the cries of “ Long live the 
king.” 

The bearer of the intelligence which had 
caused the acclamation seemed likely to be al- 
together forgotten by the monarch in the grat- 
ulations which poured upon him ; but some 
bold, frank words of the young and heroic lord 
of La Hire gave to generous Agnes Sorel ati 
opportunity of calling the attention of Charles, 
to Jean Charost. 

“Ay, God save the king!” cried La Hire,, 
warmly ; “ and send him some more crowns ia 
his purse to secure the one upon his head.” 

Agnes whispered something to the young 
queen, and Marie of Anjou turned gracefully to- 
ward De Brecy, saying, “This gentleman, my 
lord, has something to tell your majesty on that 
score.” 

“ He is the messenger of all good tidings, sir,” 
urged Agnes Sorel ; “ but perhaps your majes- 
ty forgets him. He was the trusted friend of 
j your uncle of Orleans ; he was wounded and 
' made prisoner at Azincourt, and his first steps 
upon French ground after his liberation brings 
you tidings of dignity, and the promise of suc- 
cess. Speak, Monsieur De Brecy. Tell his. 
majesty the good news you have in store.” 

Charles VII. fixed his eyes upon Jean Cha- 


114 


AGNES SOREL. 


rost, and a shade came over his face — not of 
displeasure, indeed, but of deep melancholy. 
It is probable the memories aw'akened by the 
sight, as soon as he recognized him, were very 
sorrowful. The bloody bridge of Monterreau, 
the dying Duke of Burgundy, and all the fear- 
ful acts of a day never to be forgotten, came 
back to memory ; but the impression was but 
momentary ; and when he heard the tidings 
which the young gentleman bore of present re- 
lief, and of the prospect of large future supplies, 
and was made aware that he had also brought 
the news of his being King ofFrance, he smiled 
graciously upon him, saying, “ How can we re- 
ward you. Monsieur De Brecyl Few kings 
have less means than we have.” 

At that moment, Tanneguy du Chatel — to 
whose disinterested character history, dwelling 
on his faults, has not done full justice — came 
forward, and laid his hand upon Jean Charost’s 
shoulder, saying, “ Give him St. Florent, sir ; 
which we were talking of the other day. Its 
lord not having appeared for fully fifteen years, 
the fief has clearly fallen into the demesne of 
the crown.” 

“ But I promised, Du Chatel,” said Charles, 
turning toward him. 

“Never mind that, sire,” said Du Chatel, 
bluffly. “ I do not want it. De Brecy here 
has served the crown well, and suffered for his 
services. So did his father before him, I have 
been told. He brings you good tidings — good 
tidings for France also, I do hope. Give him 
the fief, sir. If I had it, every one would be 
jealous. No one will be jealous of him.” 

“ Well, then, so be it,” replied Charles. “ The 
town and castle of St. Florent, near Bourges, 
Monsieur De Brecy, shall be yours ; but, by my 
faith, you must keep them well ; for the place 
is of importance, commanding the supplies at 
Bourges. The letters of concession shall be 
ready for you to-morrow, and you can do hom- 
age beiore you go, if you will but stay at our 
•court for a few days.” 

“ I must stay here, sire, or at Puy, for the ar- 
rival of Messire Jacques Coeur,” replied Jean 
■Charost. “ He has many another scheme for 
your majesty’s service. In St. Florent I will 
fio my duty, and I humbly thank you much for 
the gift.” 

“ Stay here, stay here,” said Charles ; and 
then he added, with a taint and melancholy 
«mileL, “ Our court is not so large as to fill even 
the Castle of Espaly to overflowing. Some one 
see that he is well cared for. And now, lords 
and ladies, other things are to be thought of 
My first thought, so help me Heaven, has been 
•ofFrance, and of what benefit the event which 
•has just happened may prove to her. But I 
•can not forget that I have lost a father, a kind 
.and noble prince, whom God has visited with 
long and sore afflictions, but who never lost the 
'love of his people or his son. I do believe, 
from all that I have heard, that death was to 
him a blessing and relief ; but still I must mourn 
that so sad and joyless a life has ended with- 
out one gleam of hope or happiness, even at the 
■close. 1 had hoped that it might be otherwise, 
that my sword might have freed him from the 
•durance in which he has been so long kept ; 
that my care and love might have soothed his 
latest hours. It has been ordered otherwise, 


and God’s will be done. But all to-morrow we 
will give up to solemn mourning, and the next 
day take counsel as to instant action.” 

Thus saying, he took the hand of the queen 
in his owm, and was retiring from the room, 
the group around him only moving to give him 
passage, except one gentleman, who sprang 
to open the door. Two persons were left in 
the midst of the little crowd, not exactly iso- 
lated, but in circumstances of some awkward- 
ness. Agnes Sorel, notwithstanding all her 
influence at the court, notwithstanding all her 
power over the mind of the young king, felt 
that the bonds between herself and those who 
now surrounded her were very slight, and that 
there were jealousies and dislikes toward her 
in the bosoms of many present. But she was 
relieved from a slight embarrassment by the 
unvarying kindness of Marie of Anjou. Ere 
Charles and herself had taken six steps through 
the hall, the queen turned her head, saying, 
with a placid smile, “ Come with us, Agnes. 

I shall want you.” 

“Marvelous, truly!” said a lady standing 
near Jean Charost, speaking in a low tone, as 
if to herself “ Were^I a queen, methinks I 
would have the vengeance Heaven sends me, 
even if I did not seek some for myself” 

At the same moment, Tanneguy du Chatel 
laid his hand upon Jean Charost’s arm : “ You 
must come with me, De Brecy,” he said. “ You 
shall be my guest in the chateau. I have room 
enough there where I lodge. Wait but a mo- 
ment till I speak a word or two with these good 
lords. We must not let the tide of good for- 
tune ebb again unimproved. The royal name 
alone is a great thing for us ; but it may be 
made to have a triple effect — upon our enemies, 
upon our friends, and upon the king himself 
By my life, this is no time to throw one card 
out of one’s hand.” 

He then spoke for several minutes in a low 
tone with Dunois, La Hire, Louvet, and others, 
and, returning to the side of Jean Charost, led 
him down to the outer court, on his way to that 
part of the building which he himself inhabited. 
There, patiently waiting by the side of the mule, 
they found tlie son of the landlord at Puy. The 
boy was dismissed speedily, w^ell satisfied, with 
directions to send up the young gentleman’s 
horse to the castle the next morning ; and the 
rest of the evening was spent by Jean Charost 
and Tanneguy du Chatel almost alone. It was 
not an evening of calm, however ; for the ex- 
citable spirit of the prev6t was much moved 
with all that had passed, and with his prompt 
and eager impetuosity he commented, not alone 
upon the news that had been received, but upon 
all their probable consequences. Often he would 
start up and pace the room in a deep revery, 
and often he would question his young com- 
panion upon details into which the king himself 
had forgotten to inquire. 

“ The happy moment must not be lost,” he 
said. “ The happy moment must not be lost. 
The young king’s mind must be kept up to the 
tone which it has received by this intelligence. 
Would to Heaven I could insure half an hour’s 
conversation with the fair Agnes, just to show 
her all the consequences of the first great step. 
But I do not like to ask it ; and, after all, she 
needs no prompting. She is a glorious creat- 


AGNES 

ure, De Brecy. Heart and soul, with her, are ' 
given to France.” 

“Yet there be some,” said Jean Charost ; 

“ some, even in this court, who seem not very 
well disposed toward her. Did you hear what 
was said by a lady near me just now V’ 

“Oh, Joan of Vendome,” cried Tanneguy, 
with a laugh ; “ she is a prescribed railer at 
our fair friend. She came to Poictiers two 
years ago, fancying herself a perfect paragon 
of beauty, and making up her mind to become 
the dauphin’s mistress ; but he would have 
naught to say to her faded charms — not even 
out of courtesy to her husband ; so the poor 
thing is full of spleen, and would kill the beau- 
tiful Agnes, if she dared. She is too cowardly 
for that, however : at least I trust so.” 

Jean Charost meditated deeply over his com- 
panion’s words, and whither his thoughts had 
led him might be. perceived by what he next 
said. 

“ Strange,” he murmured, “ very strange, the 
conduct of the queen !” 

“ Ay, strange enough,” answered Du Chatel. 
“We have here, within this little chateau of 
Espaly, De Brecy, two women such as the 
world has rarely ever seen, both young, both 
beautiful, both gentle. The one has all the 
courage, the intellect, the vigor of a man ; and 
yet, as we see, a woman’s weakness. The oth- 
er is tender, timid, kind, and loving, and yet 
without one touch of that selfishness which 
prompts to what we call jealousy. By the Lord, 
De Brecy, it has often puzzled me, this conduct 
of Marie of Anjou. I do believe I could, as 
readily as any man, sacrifice myself to the hap- 
piness of one I love ;* but I could not make a 
friend of my wife’s lover. There are things 
too much for nature — for human nature, at least. 
But this girl — her majesty, I mean — seems to 
me quite an angel ; and the other does, I will 
say, all that a fallen and repentant angel could 
to retain the friendship which she fears she may 
have forfeited. All that deference, and rever- 
erence, and humble, firm attachment can effect 
to wash away her offense, she uses toward the 
queen ; and I do believe, from my very heart, 
that no counsel ever given by Agnes Sorel to 
Marie of Anjou has any other object upon earth 
but Marie’s happiness. Still, it is all very 
strange, and the less we say about it the better.” 

Jean Charost thought so likewise ; but that 
conversation brought upon him fits of thought 
which lasted, with more or less interruption, 
during the whole evening. 

Society, in almost every country, has its in- 
fancy, its youth, its maturity, and its old age. 
At least, such has been the case hitherto. 
These several acts of life are of longer or 
shorter duration, according to circumstances, 
but the several epochs are usually sufficiently 
marked. The age in which Jean Charost spoke 
was not one of that fine, moralizing tendency 
which belongs to the maturity of life ; but it was 
one of passion and of action, of youth, activity, 

* He afterward nobly proved hia devotion to Charles 
the Seventh, by an act which distinguished him more than 
all the military services he rendered to that prince. His 
dismissal from the court was demanded, as the price of 
even a partial reconciliation between the king and the 
young Duke of Burgundy. Charles resisted firmly; but 
Du ChsLtel voluntarily resigned all his prospects and re- 
tired, to free his master from embarrassment. 


SOREL. 115 

I and indiscretion. Nevertheless, feeling often 
supplied a guide where reason failed, and from 
some cause Jean Charost felt pained that he 
could not find one character among those who 
surrounded him sufficiently pure and high to 
command and obtain his whole esteem. He 
asked himself that painful question which so 
often recurs to us ere we have obtained from 
experience, as well as reason, a knowledge of 
man’s mixed nature, “ Is there such a thing as 
virtue, and truth, and honor upon earth I” 

The next day was passed as a day of mourn- 
ing ; but on the following morning early, all the 
nobles in the castle of Espaly met together in 
the great hall, and some eager consultations 
went on among them. There were smiles, and 
gay looks, and many a lively jest, and lances 
were brought in, and bucklers examined, as if 
for a tournament. 

Jean Charost asked his companion, Du Cha- 
tel, the meaning of all that they beheld ; and the 
other replied, with a grave smile, “ Merely a 
boy’s frolic ; but one which may have important 
consequences.” 

A moment after, the young king himself, hab- 
ited in scarlet, entered the hall, followed by a 
number of the ladies and gentlemen of the 
court, and received gracefully and graciously 
the greetings of his subjects. But an instant 
after. La Hire and two or three others surround- 
ed and pressed upon him so closely, that Jean 
Charost thought they were showing scanty rev- 
erence toward the king, when suddenly a voice 
exclaimed, “ Pardon us, sire ;” and in an in- 
stant spears were crossed, a shield cast down 
upon them, and the young monarch lifted to a 
throne which might have befitted one of the 
predecessors of Charlemagne. Dunois seized 
a banner embroidered with the arms of France, 
and moving on through the doors of the hall 
into the chapel, the banner was waved three 
times in the air, and the voices of all present 
made the roof ring with the shout of, “ Long 
live King Charles the Seventh!” 

Almost at the same time, another personage 
was added to the group around the altar, and 
Jacques Coeur himself repeated heartily the cry, 
adding, “ I have brought with me, sire — at least, 
so I trust — the means to make you King of 
France, indeed. It is here in this chateau, and 
all safe.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, my good friend,” said the 
young king. “We must take counsel together 
how it may be used to the best advantage ; and 
our deep gratitude shall follow the service, 
whatever be the result of the use we make of 
it. And now, lords and ladies, to Poictiers im- 
mediately — ay, to-morrow morning, to be sol- 
emnly crowned in the Cathedral there. That 
city, at least, we can call our own, and there 
we will deliberate how to recover others.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

What a wild whirlpool is history, and how 
strange it is to gaze upon it, and to see the 
multitudes of atoms that every instant are 
rushing forward upon the whirling and strug- 
gling waters of Time, borne fiercely along by 
causes that they know not, but obey — now 


116 


AGNES SOREL. 


catching the light, now plunged into darkness, 
agitated, tossed to and fro, turned round in gid- 
dy dance, and at length swallowed up in the 
deep centre of the vortex where all things dis- 
appear! It is a strange, a terrible, but a salu- 
tary contemplation. No sermon that was ever 
preached, no funeral oration ever spoken, shows 
so plainly, brings home to the heart so closely, 
the emptiness of all human things, the idleness 
of ambition, the folly of avarice, the weakness 
of vanity, and the meanness of pride, as the sad 
and solemn aspect of history — the record of 
deeds that have produced nothing, and passions 
that have been all in vain. But there is a Book 
from which all these things will at one time be 
read ; and then, how awful will be the final 
results disclosed ! 

, To men who make history, however, while 
floating round in that vortex, and tending on- 
ward, amid all their struggles, to the one inev- 
itable doom, how light and easy is the transi- 
tion, how imperceptible the diminution of the 
circle, as onward, onward they are carried — 
how rapid, especially in times of great activity, 
is the passage of event into event. Time seems 
to stop in the heat of action, and energy, like 
the prophet, exclaims, “ Sun, stand thou still 
upon Gibeon ; and thou, Moon, in the valley of 
Ajalon I’l 

It seemed to Jean Charost — after several 
years had passed — but as a day and a night since 
he had left Agnes and his mother in the chateau 
of Brecy, near Bourges. Each day had had its 
occupation, each hour its thought : the one had 
glided into the other, and one deed trod so hast- 
ily upon the steps of another that there was no 
opportunity to count the time. And yet so 
many great events had happened that one would 
have thought the hours upon the dial were 
marked sufficiently. He had taken part in bat- 
tles, he had been employed in negotiations, he 
had navigated one of the many armed vessels, 
now belonging to Jacques Cceur, upon the Med- 
iterranean, in search of fresh resources for his 
king ; and one of those lulls had taken place at 
the court of France — those periods of idle inact- 
ivity which occasionally intervened between 
fierce struggles against the foreign enemy, or 
factious cabals among the courtiers themselves. 
He took his way from Poictiers toward Bourges, 
to fulfill the promise he had often made to him- 
self of returning, at least for a time, to those he 
loved with unabated fondness; and as he went, 
he thought with joy of his dear mother just as he 
left her — not knowing that her hair was now as 
white as snow ; and his dear little Agnes — for- 
getting that she was no longer a mere bright 
girl of fourteen years of age. 

But Jean Charost now no longer appeared as 
a poor youth struggling to redeem his father’s 
encumbered estates, nor as a soldier followed 
to battle by a mere handful of followers. His 
train was strong and numerous. The lands of 
St. Florent, so near his own castle and the town 
of Bourges as to be under easy control of an 
intendant, had furnished not only ample reve- 
nues but hardy soldiers, and with a troop of 
some sixty mounted men, all joyful, like him- 
self, to return for a period to their homes, he 
rode gladly onward, a powerful man in full ma- 
turity, with a scarred brow and sun-burned face, 
but with the rich brown curls of his hair hardly 


streaked with gray, except where the casque 
had somewhat pressed upon it, and brought the 
wintery mark before its time. But it was in the 
expression of his countenance that youth was 
most strongly apparent still. There were no 
hard lines, no heavy wrinkles. There was 
gravity, for he had never been of what is called 
a very merry disposition, but it was — if I may 
be allowed an expression which, at first sight, 
seems to imply a contradiction — it was a cheer- 
ful gravity, more cheerful than it had been in 
years long past. Success had brightened him ; 
experience of the world and the world’s things 
had rubbed off the rust that seclusion, and study, 
and hard application had engendered ; and a 
kind, a generous, and an upright heart gave 
sunshine to his look. 

The country through which he passed was all 
peaceful : the troops of England had not yet 
passed the Loire ; the Duke ofBedford was in En- 
gland, and his lieutenants showed themselves 
somewhat negligent during his absence. Aft- 
er the fiercest struggle, the spirit of the French- 
man soon recovers breath ; and in riding from 
Poictiers to Bourges, one might have fancied 
that the land had never known strife and con- 
tention — that all was peace, prosperity, and joy. 
There was the village dance upon the green ; 
there was the gay inn, with its well-fed host, 
and his quips, and jests, and merry tales ; the 
marriage- bells rang out; the procession of the 
clergy moved along the streets, and there was 
song in the vineyard and the field. 

It was an evening in the bright, warm sum- 
mer, when the last day’s march but one came 
toward an end ; and on a small height rising 
from the banks of the Cher, with a beautiful 
village at its foot, and woods sweeping round 
it on three sides, appeared the old castle of St. 
Florent, where Jean Charost was to halt for the 
night, and journey on to De Brecy the following 
day. It was a pleasant feeling to his heart that 
he was coming once more upon his own land ; 
and there above, upon the great round tower — 

for it was a very ancient building even then 

floated a flag which bore, he doubted not, the 
arms of De Brecy. Just as he was passing one 
of the curious old bridges over the Cher, with 
its narrow, pointed arches, and massy, ivy-cov- 
ered piers, a flash broke from the walls of the 
tower, and a moment after the report of a can- 
non was heard. 

“ They see us coming, and are giving us wel- 
come, De Bigny,” said Jean Charost, turning 
to one of his companions who rode near. “ Oh, 
’tis pleasant to enjoy one’s own in peace! 
Would to Heaven these wars were over ! I am 
well weary of them.” 

They rode on toward the slope, and entered 
a sort of elbow of the wood, where the dark 
oak-trees, somewhat browned by the summer 
sun, stretched their long branches overhead, 
and made a pleasant shade. It was a sweet, 
refreshing scene, where the eye could pierce 
far through the bolls of the old trees, catching 
here and there a mass of gray rock, a piece of 
rich green sward, a sparkling rivulet dashing 
down to meet the Cher, a low hermitate, with 
a stone cross raised in front, and two old men, 
with their long, snowy beards, retreating be- 
neath the shady archway at the sight of a troop 
of armed men x 


AGNES SOREL. 


117 


“ This is pleasant,” said De Brecy, still speak- 
ing to his companion ; “ but to-morrow will af- 
ford things still pleasanter. The face of Nature 
is very beautiful, but not so beautiful as the 
faces of those we love.” 

A hundred steps further, and the gates of the 
old castle appeared in view, crenelated and ma- 
chicolated, with its two large flanking-towers, 
and the walls running off and losing themselves 
behind the trees. But there was the flutter of 
women’s garments under the arch, as well as 
the gleam of arms. The heart of De Brecy 
beat high, and, dashing on before the rest, he 
was soon upon the draw-bridge. 

It is rarely that Fortune comes to meet our 
hopes. Hard school-mistress ! She lessons 
man’s impatience by delay. But there they 
were — his mother and little Agnes, as he still 
called her. The change in both was that which 
time usually makes in the old and in the young ; 
and with old Madame De Brecy we will pass it 
over, for it had no consequences. But upon 
the changes in Agnes it may be necessary to 
pause somewhat longer. From the elderly to 
the old woman, the transition is easy, and pre- 
sents nothing remarkable. From the child to 
the young woman the step is more rapid — more 
distinct and strange. There is something in 
us which makes us comprehend decay better 
than development. 

Agnes, who, up to the period when Jean Cha- 
rost last beheld her, had been low of stature, 
though beautifully formed, seemed to have 
grown up like a lily in a jiight, and was now 
taller than Madame De Brecy. But it was not 
only in height that she had gained : her whole 
form had altered, and assumed a symmetry as 
delicate, but very different from that which it 
had displayed before. Previously, she had look- 
ed what Jean Charost had been fond to call her 
— a little fairy ; but now, though she might have 
a fairy’s likeness, still there was no doubting 
that she was a woman. Beautiful, wonderfully 
beautiful, she was to the eyes of Jean Charost ; 
but yet there was something sorrowful in the 
change. The dear being of his memory was 
gone forever, and he had not yet had time to 
become reconciled to the change. He felt he 
could not caress, he could not fondle her as he 
had done before — that he could be to her no 
longer what he had been ; and he dreamed not 
of ever becoming aught else. 

Strange to say, Agnes seemed to feel the 
change far less than he did. Indeed, she saw 
no change in him. His cheek might be a little 
browner; the scar upon his brow was new; 
but yet he was the same Jean Charost whom 
she had loved from infancy, and she perceived 
no trace of Time’s hand upon his face or per- 
son. She had not yet learned to turn her eyes 
upon herself, and the alteration in him was so 
slight, she did not mark it. She sprang to meet 
him, even before his mother, held up her cheek 
for his first kiss, and gazed at him with a look 
of affection and tenderness, while he pressed 
Madame De Brecy to his heart, which might 
have misled any beholder who knew not the 
course of their former lives. 

But Jean Charost was very happy. Between 
the two whom he loved best on all the earth, 
he entered the old chateau ; was led by them 
from room to room which he had never seen ; 


heard how, as soon as they had received news 
of his proposed return, they had come on from 
De Brecy to meet him ; how the hands of Ag- 
nes herself had decked the hall ; and how the 
tidy care of good Martin Grille had seen that 
every thing was in due order for the reception 
of his lord. Joyfully the evening passed away, 
with a thousand little occurrences, all pleasant 
at the time, but upon which I must not dwell 
now. The supper was served in the great hall, 
and after it was over, and generous wine had 
given a welcome to De Brecy’s chief followers, 
he himself retired, with his mother and his fair 
young charge, to talk over the present and the 
past. 

During that evening the conversation was 
rambling and desultory — a broken, ill-ordered 
chat, full of memories, and hardly to be detailed 
in a history like this. Jean Charost heard all 
the little incidents which had occurred in the 
neighborhood of Bourges ; how Agnes had be- 
come an accomplished horse-woman ; how she 
had learned from a musician expelled from 
Paris to play upon the lute ; how Madame De 
Brecy had ordered all things, both on their an- 
cient estates and those of St. Florent, with care 
and prudence ; and how there were a thousand 
beautiful rides and walks around, which Agnes 
could show him, on the banks of the Cher. 

Then again he told them all he himself had 
gone through, dwelling but lightly upon his own 
exploits, and acknowledging, with sincere hu- 
mility, that he had been rewarded for his serv- 
ices more largely than they deserved. Many 
an anecdote of the court, too, he told, which 
did not give either of his hearers much inclina- 
tion to mingle with it ; how the adhesion of the 
Count of Richmond had been bought by the 
sword of Constable and other honors ; how the 
somewhat unstable alliance of the Duke of Brit- 
tany had been gained by the concession of one 
half of the revenues of Guyenne ; how Rich- 
mond had played the tyrant over his king, and 
forced him to receive ministers at his pleasure ; 
how he had caused Beaulieu to be assassina- 
ted ; and how, after a mock trial, he had tied 
Giac in a sack, and thrown him into the Loire. 
Happily, he added. La Trimouille, whom he had 
compelled the king to receive as his minister, 
had avenged his monarch by ingratitude toward 
his patron ; how Richmond was kept in activity 
at a distance from the court, and all was quiet 
for a time during his absence. Thus passed 
more than one hour. The sun had gone down, 
and yet no lights were called for ; for the large 
summer moon shone lustrous in at the window, 
harmonizing well with the feelings of those now 
met after a long parting. Madame De Brecy 
sat near the open casement ; Agnes and Jean 
Charost stood near, with her hand resting quiet- 
ly in his — I know not how it got there — and 
the fair valley of the Cher stretched out far 
below, till all lines were lost in the misty moon- 
light of the distance. Just then a solemn song 
rose up from the foot of the hill, between them 
and St. Florent, and Agnes, leaning her head 
familiarly on Jean Charost’s shoulder, whis- 
pered, “ Hark ! The two hermits and the chil- 
dren of the village, whom they teach, are chant- 
ing before they part.” 

Jean Charost listened attentively till the song 
was ended, and then remarked, in a quiet tone, 


118 


AGNES SOREL, 


“ I saw two old men going into the hermitage. 
I hope their reputation is fair ; for it is difficult 
to dispossess men who make a profession of 
sanctity ; and yet their proximity is not always 
much to be coveted.” 

“ Oh yes, they are well spoken of,” replied 
Madame De Brecy ; “ but one of them, at least, 
is very strange, and frightened us.” 

“ It was but for a moment,” cried Agnes, 
eagerly. “ He is a kind, good man, too. I wiH 
tell you how it all happened, dear Jean ; and 
we will go down and see him to-morrow, for 
he and I are great friends now. The day after 
our arrival here, I had wandered out, as I do 
at De Brecy, thinking myself quite as safe here 
as there, when suddenly in the wood, just by 
the little waterfall, I came upon a tall old man, 
dressed in a gray gown, and walking with a 
staff. V/hat it was he saw in me, I do not 
know ; but the instant he beheld me he stopped 
suddenly, and seemed to reel as if he were go- 
ing to fall. I started forward to help him ; but 
he seized hold of my arms, and fixed his eyes 
so sternly in my face, he frightened me. His 
words terrified me still more ; for he burst forth 
with the strangest, wildest language I ever 
heard, asking if I had come from the grave, and 
if his long years of penitence had been in vain ; 
saying that he had forgiven me, and surely I 
might forgive him ; that God had forgiven him, 
he knew ; then why should I be more obdurate ; 
and then he wept bitterly. I tried to soothe 
and calm him ; but he still held me by the arm, 
and I could not get away. Gradually, however, 
he grew tranquil, and begged my pardon. He 
said he had been suffering under a delusion, 
asked my name, and made me sit down by him 
on the moss. There we remained, and talked 
for more than half an hour; for, whenever I 
wished to go, he begged me piteously to stay. 
All the time I remained, his conversation seem- 
ed to me to ramble a great deal, at least I could 
not understand one half of it. He told me, 
however, that he had once been a rich man, a 
courtier, and a soldier, and that many years 
ago he had been terribly wronged, and in a mo- 
ment of passionate madness he had committed 
a great crime. He had wandered about, he said, 
for some years as a condemned spirit, not only 
half insane, but knowing that he was so. After 
that, he met with a good man who led him to 
better hopes, and thenceforth he had passed his 
whole time in penitence and prayer. When he 
let me go, he besought me eagerly to come and 
see him in his hermitage, and, taking Margiette 
the maid with me, I have been down twice. I 
found him and his companion teaching the lit- 
tle children of the village, and he seemed al- 
ways glad to see me, though at first he would 
give a sidelong glance, as if he almost feared 
me. But he seemed to know much of you, dear 
Jean, at least by name. He said you had al- 
ways been faithful and true, and would be so to 
the end, and spoke of you as I loved to bear. 
So you must come down with me, and see him 
and his comrade.” 

“ I will see him,” replied Jean Charost. He 
made no further remark upon her little narra- 
tive ; but what she told him gave him matter 
for much thought, even after the whole house- 
hold had retired to rest. 


CHAPTER JfLII. 

When Jean Charost awoke, it was one of 
those pleasant, drowsy summer mornings when 
the whole of nature seems still inclined to sleep, 
when there is a softness in the air, a misty haze 
in the atmosphere, streaky white clouds are half 
veiling the sky, and even the birds of the bush, 
and the beasts of the field, seem inclined to pro- 
long the sweet morning slumber in the midst of 
the bounteous softness of all around. A breath 
of air, it is true, stirred the trees ; but it was very 
gentle and very soft, and though the lark rose 
up from his fallow to sing his early matins at 
heaven’s gate, yet the sounds were so softened 
by the distance, that one seemed to feel the 
melody rather than to hear it. It was very 
early, and from the window no moving object 
was to be seen except the mute herds winding 
on toward their pasturage, a rook wending its 
straight flight overhead, and an early laborer 
taking his way toward the fields. The general 
world was all asleep; but, nevertheless, the 
young Lord De Brecy was soon equipped in 
walking guise and wandering on toward the 
hermitage. He found its tenants up, and ready 
for the mornings’ labors ; but one of them wel- 
comed him as an old acquaintance, and, leading 
him into their cell, remained with him in con- 
versation for more than an hour. 

De B^ecy came forth more grave than he had 
gone in, though that was grave enough, and im- 
mediately on his return to the castle messen- 
gers were dispatched to several public function- 
aries in Bourges. It was done quietly, how^- 
ever, and even those who bore the short letters 
of their lord had no idea that his impulse was 
a sudden one, supposing merely that he acted 
on orders received before he had set out from 
Poictiers. 

Ere he joined his mother and Agnes too, De 
Brecy passed some time in examining a packet 
of old papers, a few trinkets, and a ring, and 
then walked up and down thoughtfully in his 
room for several minutes. Then casting away 
care, he mingled with his household again, and 
an hour went by in cheerful conversation. Per- 
haps Jean Charost was gayer than usual, less 
thoughtful, yet his mother observed that once 
or twice his eyes fixed upon the face of Agnes 
for a very few moments with a look of intense 
earnestness and consideration. Nor was Ag- 
nes herself unconscious of it ; and once, for a 
single instant, as she caught his look directed 
toward her, a fluttering blush spread over hei 
cheek, and some slight agitation betrayed itself 
in her manner. 

Shortly after she left the hall ; and Madame 
De Brecy said, in a quiet tone, but not without 
a definite purpose, “ I doubt not we shall have 
an early visit, my son, from a young neighbor 
of ours who lives between this place and De 
Brecy ; Monsieur De Brives, whose chateau, and 
the village of that name you can see from the 
top of the tower. He has frequently been to 
see us both here and at De Brecy — I believe T 
might say to see our dear Agnes. You see. 
hny dear son, how beautiful she has become ; 
and, to say the truth, I am very glad you have 
arrived before this young gentleman has come 
to any explanation of his wishes ; for I could 
not venture to tell him even the little that I 


AGNES 

know of Agnes’s History, and yet he might 
desire some information regarding her family.” 

She watched her son’s countenance quietly 
while she spoke, but she could discover no trace 
of emotion thereon. Jean Charost was silent, 
indeed, and did not reply for two or three min- 
utes ; but he remained quite calm, and merely 
thoughtful. At length he asked, “Do you know, 
my dearest mother, any thing of this young gen- 
tleman’s character 1” 

“ It is very fair, I believe, as the world goes,” 
replied Madame De Brecy. “He seems amia- 
ble and kind, and distinguished himself in the 
attack of Cone some years ago, I am told. He 
is wealthy, too, and altogether his own master.” 

“ How does Agnes receive him'?” asked Jean 
Charost, thoughtfully. 

“Friendly and courteously,” replied his moth- 
er ; “ but I have remarked nothing more. In- 
deed, I have given no great encouragement to 
his visits, thinking that perhaps the dear girl 
might meet with a sad disappointment if her 
affections became entangled, and her obscure 
history were to prove an insurmountable obsta- 
cle in the eyes of the man she had chosen.” 

“ Did it do so, he would be unworthy of her,” 
answered Jean Charost, rising, and walking 
slowly to and fro in the room. Then stopping 
opposite to his mother, he added, “ I have been 
thinking all this morning, my dear mother, of 
telling Agnes every thing I can tell of her his- 
tory. It is a somewhat difficult and somewhat 
painful task, but yet it must be done.” 

“ I think the sooner the better,” replied Ma- 
dame De Brecy. “ I have long thought so ; but 
trusting entirely to your judgment, I did not 
like to interfere.” 

“ Does she know that she is in no degree al- 
lied to us ?” asked Jean Charost. 

“Yes, yes,” answered his mother; “that 
her own questions elicited one day. I could 
see she would have fain known more ; but I 
merely told her she was an orphan committed 
to your care and guardianship. That seemed 
to satisfy her, and she asked no more. But I 
think it is right that she should know all.” 

“She shall,” answered Jean Charost. “I 
will tell her ; but it must be at some moment 
when we are alone together.” 

“ If you will give me any sign, I will quit the 
room,” answered Madame De Brecy. 

“ No,” replied her son, thoughtfully ; “ no : 
that will not be needful. I could not tell it in 
a formal way. It must be told gently, easily, 
my dear mother, in order not to alarm and agi- 
tate her. Some day when we are riding or 
walking forth in the woods around, or on the 
castle walls, I will say something which will 
naturally lead her to inquire. Then, piece by 
piece, I will dole it out, as if it were a matter 
of not much moment. There sounds the horn 
at the gates. Perhaps it is this Monsieur De 
Drives.” 

“ What will you do if he speaks at once 
asked Madame De Brecy quickly, adding, “ I 
doubt not that he will do so.” 

“ I will refer him to Agnes herself,” answer- 
ed Jean Charost. “ She must decide. First, 
however, I will let him know as much of her 
history as I may, and, as some counterpoise, 
will assure him that all which I have gained 
by my labors or my sword shall be hers.” 


SOREL. 119 

“ But you will some day marry, yourself, dear 
Jean — I hope, I trust so,” said his mother, 
earnestly. 

“Never!” answered her son; and the next 
moment Monsieur De Brives was in the room. 

He was a tall, handsome young man, of some 
five or six-and-twenty, polished and courteous 
in his manners, with a tone of that warm sin- 
cerity in his whole address which is usually 
very winning upon woman’s heart. Why, it is 
hardly possible to say, Jean Cbarost received 
him with somewhat stately coldness ; and the 
first few words of ceremony had hardly passed, 
when Agnes herself re-entered the room and 
welcomed their visitor with friendly ease. De 
Brecy’s eyes were turned upon her eagerly. 
At the end of a few minutes. Monsieur De Brives 
turned to Jean Charost, saying, “ I am glad you 
have returned at last. Monsieur De Brecy ; for 
I have a few words to say to you in private, if 
your leisure serves to give me audience.” 

“Assuredly,” replied De Brecy, rising; and 
whispering a word to his mother as he passed, 
he led the way to a cabinet near, giving one 
glance to the face of Agnes. It was perfectly 
calm. 

His conversation with Monsieur De Brives 
lasted half an hour, and some time before it was 
over, Madame De Brecy quietly left the hall, 
while Agnes remained embroidering a coat of 
arms. At length the two gentlemen issued 
from the cabinet, and Monsieur De Brives took 
his way at once to the room where Agnes was 
seated. Jean Charost, for his part, went down 
to the lower hall, which had been left vacant 
while his followers sported in the castle court. 
There, with a grave, stern air, and his arms 
crossed upon his chest, Jean Charost paced up 
and down the pavement, pausing once to look 
out into the court upon the gay games going on ; 
but he turned away without even a sm'.le, bend- 
ing his eyes thoughtfully upon the ol d stones 
as if he would have counted their number or 
spied out their flaws. The time seemed very 
long to him, and yet he would not interrupt the 
lover in his suit. At length, however, he heard 
a rapid step coming, and the next instant Mon- 
sieur De Brives entered the ball, as if to pass 
through it to the court. His face was deadly 
pale, and traces of strong emotion were in every 
line. 

“ Well,” cried De Brecy, advancing to meet 
him; “she has accepted you — of course, she 
has accepted you.” 

De Brives only grasped his hand, and shook 
his head. 

“ Did you tell her you knew all ?” asked De 
Brecy. “ Did you tell her of your generous — ” 

“ In vain — all in vain,” said the young man ; 
and, wringing De Brecy’s hand hard in his, he 
broke away from him, and left the castle. 

Jean Charost stood for an instant in the midst 
of the hall buried in deep thought, and then 
mounted the stairs to the room where he had 
left Agnes. He found her weeping bitterly ; 
and going gently up to her, he seated himself 
beside her and took her hand. “ Dear Agnes,” 
he said, “you are weeping. You regret what 
you have done. It is not yet too late. Let me 
send after him. He has hardly yet left the cas- 
tle.” 

“ No, no — no !” cried Agnes, eagerly. “ I do 


120 


AGNES SOREL. 


not regret what I have said, though I regret 
having given him pain — I regret to give pain to 
any thing. But I told him the truth.” 

“What did you tell himi” asked Jean Cha- 
rost, perhaps indiscreetly. 

Agnes’s face glowed warmly, but she an- 
swered at once, “ I told him I could not love 
him as a woman should love her husband.” 

“ Bitter truth enough from such lips as those,” 
said Jean Charost in a low tone. [ 

“Indeed, indeed,” cried Agnes, who seemed 
to feel some reproach in his words, “I did not [ 
intend to grieve him more than I could help in 
telling him the truth. But how could I love 
himl” she asked, with a bewildered look; and 
then shaking her head sadly, she added, “ no — 
no — no !” 

“ Not a word more, dear Agnes,” answered 
Jean Charost. “ You did right to tell him the j 
truth ; and I am quite sure you did it as gently 
as might be. Now let us forget this painful 1 
incident as soon as we can, and all be as we 
were before.” 

“ Oh gladly,” cried Agnes, with a bright smile. 

“ I hope for nothing, I desire nothing but that.” j 

He soothed her with kindly tenderness, and 
soon whiled her away from all painful thoughts, 
gradually and with more skill than might have 
been expected, leading the conversation by im- 
perceptible degrees to other subjects and to dis- 
tant scenes. The return of Madame De Brecy 
to the room renewed for a time the beautiful 
girl’s agitation ; and Jean Charost left her with 
his mother, wdth a promise to take a long ram- 
ble with her that evening, and make her show 
him every fair spot in the woods around the 
castle. 

Woman’s heart, it is generally supposed, is 
more easily opened to a fellow-woman than to 
a man ; and sometimes it is so, but sometimes 
not. If we have w'atched closely, most of us 
must have seen the secret within more care- 
fully guarded from a woman’s eyes than from 
any other — perhaps from a knowledge of their i 
acuteness. Such, indeed, might not — probably i 
was not — the case with Agnes. Nevertheless, ' 
it was in vain that Madame De Brecy questioned 
her. She told all that had occurred frankly and 
simply, every word that had been uttered, as far 
as she could recollect them. But there was 
something that Agnes did not tell — the cause 
of all that had occurred. True, she could not ' 
tell it ; for it was intangible to herself — misty, I 
indefinite — a something which she could feel, 
but not explain. Gladly she heard the trumpet 
sound to dinner; for she had set Madame De ! 
Brecy musing ; and Agnes did not like that she ^ 
should muse too long over her conduct of that * 
day. I 

Noon proved very sultry, and Jean Charost ' 
had plenty of occupation for several hours after ! 
the meal. Horsemen came and went : he saw 
several persons from Bourges, and several of 
the tenants of St. Florent. He sent off a large 
body of the men who had accompanied him from 
Poictiers to the neighboring city, and the castle 
resumed an air of silence and loneliness. 

Toward evening, however, he called upon 
Agnes to prepare for her walk ; and as he paced j 
up and down the hall waiting for her, Madame 
De Brecy judged from his look and manner that 
he meditated speaking to his fair charge, that ! 


very evening, on the delicate subject of her own 
history. 

“Be gentle with the dear girl, my son,” she 
said, “ and if you see that a subject agitates her, 
change it. There is something on Agnes’s mind 
that we do not comprehend fully; and one may 
touch a tender point without knowing it.” 

“ Do you suspect any other attachment 1” 
asked Jean Charost, turning so suddenly, and 
speaking so gravely, that his mother was sur 
prised. 

“ None whatever,” she answ'ered. “Indeed, 
I can not believe such a thing possible. To my 
knowledge she has seen no one at all likely to 
gain her affections but this Monsieur De Drives. 
The stiff old soldiers left to guard this castle 
and De Brecy, good Martin Grille, and Henriot, 
the groom, upon my w'ord, are the only men we 
have seen.” 

The return of Agnes stopped further conver- 
sation ; and she and De Brecy took their way 
out by one of the posterns on the hill. Agnes 
was now as gay as a lark ; the shower had pass- 
ed away and left all clear ; not a trace of agita- 
tion lingered behind. De Brecy was thought- 
ful, but strove to be cheerful likewise, paused 
and gazed wherever she told him the scene was 
beautiful, talked with no ignorant or tasteless 
lips of the loveliness of nature, and of the mar- 
vels of art which he had seen since he was last 
in Berri ; but there was something more in his 
conversation. There was a depth of feeling, a 
warmth of fancy, a richness of association which 
made Agnes thoughtful also. He seemed to 
lead her mind which way he would ; to have 
the complete mastery over it ; and exercising 
his power gently and tenderly, it was a pleasant 
and a new sensation to feel that he possessed 
it. 

There was one very beautiful scene that came 
up just when the sun was a couple of hands’ 
breadth from the horizon. It was a small se- 
cluded nook in the wood, of some ten or fifteen 
yards across, surrounded and overshadowed by 
the tall old trees, but only covered, itself, with 
short green grass. It w’as as flat and even, too, 
as the pavement of the hall ; but just beyond, 
to the southwest, was a short and sharp descent, 
from the foot of which some lesser trees shot 
up their branches, letting in between them, as 
through a window, a prospect of the valley of 
the Cher, and the glowing sky beyond. 

“This is a place for Dryads, Agnes,” said 
Jean Charost, making her sit down by him on 
a large fragment of stone which had rolled to 
the foot of an old oak. “ Nymphs of the woods, 
dear girl, might well hold commune here with 
spirits of the air.” 

“ I was thinking but the day before yester- 
day,” said Agnes, “ what a beautiful spot this 
would be for a cottage in the wmod, with that 
lovely sky before us, and the world below.” 

“ It is always better,” said Jean Charost, with 
a smile, “ to keep the world below us — or, rather, 
to keep ourselves above the world ; but I fear 
me, Agnes, it is not the inhabitants of cottages 
who have the most skill in doing so. I have 
little faith either in cottages or hermitages.” 

“ Do not destroy my dreams, dear Jean,” said 
Agnes, almost sadly. 

“ Oh, no,” he answered, “ I would not de- 
stroy, but only read them.” 


AGNES SOREL. 


121 


Agnes paused, with her eyes bent down for 
a moment or two, and then looked earnestly in 
his face: “They are very simple,” she said, 
“ and easily read. The brightest dream of my 
whole life, the one I cherish the most fondly, is 
but to remain forever with dear Madame De 
Brecy and you, without any change — except,” 
she added, eagerly, “ to have you always remain 
with us — to coax you to throw away swords 
and lances, and never make our hearts beat 
with the thought that you are in battle and in 
danger.” 

Jean Charost’s own heart beat now ; and he 
was silent for a moment or two. “ That can 
not be, Agnes,” he said, “ and you would not 
wish it, my dear girl. Every one must sacrifice 
something for his country — very much in peril- 
ous times — men their repose, their ease, often 
their happiness, their life itself, should it be 
necessary ; women, the society of those they 
love — brothers, fathers, husbands. Now, dear 
Agnes, I am neither of these to you, and there- 
fore your sacrifice is not so much as that of 
many others.” 

“ I know you are not my father,” answered 
Agnes. “That our dear mother told me long 
ago ; but do you know, dear Jean, I often wish 
you were my brother.” 

Jean Charost smiled, and seemed for a mo- 
ment to hesitate what he should reply. He 
pursued his purpose steadily, however, and at 
length answered, “ That is a relationship which, 
wish as we may, we can not bring about. But, 
indeed, we are none to each other, Agnes. You 
are only my adopted child.” 

“ No, not your child,” she said ; “ you are too 
young for that. Why not your adopted sister 1” 

“ I never heard of such an adoption,” replied 
De Brecy ; “ but you are like a child to me, Ag- 
nes. I have carried you more than one mile in 
my arms, when you were an infant.” 

“And an orphan,” she added, in a sad tone. 
“ How much — how very much do I owe you, 
kindest and best of friends.” 

“ Not so much, perhaps, as you imagine, Ag- 
nes,” replied Jean Cliarost. “ To save my own 
life in a moment of great danger, I made a 
solemn promise to protect, cherish, and educate 
you, as if you were my own. I had incautiously 
suffered myself to fall into the hands of a party 
of ruthless marauders, who, imagining that I 
had come to espy their actions, and perhaps to 
betray them, threatened to put me to death. 
There was no possibility of escape or resist- 
ance ; but a gentleman who was with them, and 
who, though not of them, possessed apparently, 
from old associations, great influence over them, 
induced them to spare me on the condition I 
have mentioned. You were then an infant ly- 
ing under the greenwood-tree, and I, it is true, 
hardly more than a boy ; but I took a solemn 
promise, dear Agnes, and I have striven to per- 
form it well. Yet I deserve no credit even for 
that, dear Agnes ; for what I did at first from 
a sense of duty, I afterward did from affection. 
Well did you win and did you repay my love ; 
an i, as I told Monsieur De Brives this morning, 
alfiiough at my death the small estate of De 
Brecy must pass away to another and very dis- 
tant branch of ray own family, all that I have 
won by my own exertions will be yours.” 

“Do you think I could enjoy it, and you 


dead I” asked Agnes, in a sad and almost re- 
proachful tone. “Oh, no — no! All I should 
then want would be enough to find me place 
in a nunnery, there to pray that it might not 
be long till we met again. You have been all 
and every thing to me through life, dear Jean. 
What matters it what happens when you are 
gone I” 

Jean Charost laid his hand gently upon hers, 
and she might have felt that strong hand trem- 
ble ; but her thoughts seemed busy with other 
things. She knew not the emotions she ex- 
cited — doubtless she knew not even those 
which lay at the source of her own words and 
thoughts. 

“ It is sad,” she continued, after a brief pause, 

“ never to have seen a father’s face or known 
a mother’s blessing. To have no brother, no 
sister ; and though the place of all has been 
supplied, and well supplied, by a friend, I some- 
times long to know who were my parents, what 
was my family. I know you would tell me, if 
it were right for me to know, and therefore I 
have never asked — nor do I ask now, though 
the thought sometimes troubles me.” 

“ I am ready to tell you all I know this mo- 
ment,” answered Jean Charost ; “ but that is 
not much, and it is a sad tale. Are you pre- 
pared to hear it, Agnesi” 

“No — not if it is sad,” she answered. “I 
have been looking forward to the time of your 
return, dear friend, as if every day of your stay 
were to be a day of joy, and not a shadow to 
come over me during the whole time. Yet you 
have been but one day here, and that has been 
more checkered with sadness than many I have 
known for years. I have shed tears, which I 
have not done before since you went away. I 
would have no more sad things to-day. Some 
other time — some other time you shall tell me 
all about myself.” 

“ All that I know,” answered Jean Charost ; 

“ and I will give you, too, some papers which, 
perhaps, may tell you more. There are some 
jewels, too, which belong to you — ” 

“ See,” said Agnes, interrupting him, as if 
her mind had been absent, “ the sun is halfway 
down behind the edge of the earth. Had we 
not better go back to the castle 1 How glori- 
ously he lights up the edges of the clouds, chang- 
ing the dark gray into crimson and gold. I 
have often thought that love does the like ; and 
when you and our dear mother are with me, I 
feel that it is so ; for things that would be other- • 
wise dark and sad seem then to become bright 
and sparkle. Even that which made me weep 
this morning has lost its heaviness, and as it 
was to be, I am glad that it is over.” 

“Will you never repent, my Agnesi” asked 
Jean Charost, with a voice not altogether free 
from emotion. “ Of this Monsieur De Brives 
I know nothing but by report, yet he seemed to 
me one well calculated to win favor — and per- 
haps to deserve it.” 

“What is he to mel” asked Agnes, almost 
impatiently. “ A mere stranger. Shall I ever 
repent 1 oh, never — never!” 

“ But you must marry some one nearly as 
much a stranger to you as he is,” replied Jean 
Charost. 

She only shook her head sadly, again answer- 
ing, “ Never !” 


122 


AGNES SOREL. 


Jean Charost was silent for a moment ; and 
then rising, they returned to the castle with 
nothing said of all that might have been said. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

There was a great change in Agnes, and 
Madame De Brecy remarked it immediately. 
Hers was an earnest, though a cheerful spirit, 
and when she was thoughtful, those who knew 
her well might be sure she was debating some- 
thing with herself, examining some course of 
action, trying some thought or feeling before 
the tribunal of her own heart. All that night, 
and all the following morning, she was very 
thoughtful.. Her gayety seemed gone, and 
though she could both listen and converse, yet 
at the least pause she fell back into a revery 
again. 

Jean Charost, too, was a good deal changed, 
at least toward Agnes, and the mother’s eye 
marked it with very varied feelings. His man- 
ner was more tender, his language more glow- 
ing ; there was a spirit in his words which had 
never been there before. He, too, was often 
very thoughtful ; but Jean Charost had other 
motives for thought besides those connected 
with Agnes. Early on the morning of the day 
following the incidents lately detailed, he sent 
a man up to the watch-tower with orders to 
keep his eye on the valley of the Cher, and 
Madame De Brecy remarked that the soldiers 
who had remained at St. Florent were no longer 
scattered about, either amusing themselves in 
the village, or sporting in the court-yard, but 
were gathered together, all in busy occupation, 
some cleaning and rubbing down their horses, 
some polishing armor, or sharpening swords and 
lances, some skillfully making arrows or quar- 
rels for the cross-bow. She refrained from ask- 
ing any questions till after the mid-day meal ; 
but it was hardly over when the horn of the 
watcher upon the tower was winded loudly, 
and De Brecy, springing up from the table, ran 
up the stairs himself, as if on some notice of 
danger. There were several of the chief per- 
sons of his little band still around the board ; 
but none of them moved or show’ed any sign of 
anxiety, and, in truth, they had been so long 
inured to hourly peril that danger had lost its 
excitement for them. 

The young lord was absent only a few min- 
, utes ; but, on his return, he did not resume his 
seat, merely saying to the soldiers around, “ To 
the saddle with all speed. Lead out all the 
horses. Some one bring me my armor. Do not 
look pale, my mother ; I know not that there is 
any cause for alarm ; but I heard yesterday that 
troops w'ere tending toward Bourges in a some- 
what menacing attitude, and I think it may be 
as well for us to leave St. Florent for a time, 
and return to De Brecy.” 

“ Are they English 1” asked Madame De 
Brecy, evidently much frightened. 

“ Not so,” replied her son ; “ nor are they 
even the rebels on the English part ; but I 
grieve to say these are Royalists, perhaps more 
dangerous to the king’s cause than even his 
open enemies. I will tell you the circumstances 
presently ; for there may yet be some mistake. 
The spears we have seen are very distant, and 


few in number. Our good friend above was 
quite right to give the alarm ; but neither he 
nor I could at all tell what troops they were, 
nor in what force. I will go back and see more 
in a moment. In the mean time, however, 
dear mother, it would be w'ell to have all pre- 
' pared for immediate departure. I can not re- 
ceive these gentlemen as friends in St. Florent, 
and they may be very apt to treat those who 
do not do so as enemies. Dear Agnes, get 
ready in haste. Tell Martin Grille to have my 
mother’s litter ready ; I will return directly.” 

Thus saying, he again went up to the watch- 
tower, and remained gazing along the valley 
of the Cher for ten minutes or a quarter of an 
hour. There was much woodland in those 
days along that fair valley, and Jean Charost 
could not satisfy himself Spear heads he cer- 
tainly descried ; but in the leafy covering of the 
scene they were lost almost as soon as per- 
ceived, and he could not tell their numbers. 
At length he turned to the warder, who stood 
silent, gazing out beside him, and pointed out 
one particular spot in the landscape. “You 
see that large tree,” he said ; “ an evergreen 
oak, it seems to be. The road divides there 
into two ; one turns eastward to the right, the 
other comes toward the north. Watch those 
men w’ell as they pass that spot. They must 
all show themselves there. If there be more 
than fifty, and they come upon this road, blow’ 
your horn twice and come down. If they take 
the other road, remain quiet where you are till 
I come.” 

The preparations of Madame De Brecy, un- 
der the effect of fear, had been very rapid ; and 
she and Agnes were standing in the hall, ready 
for departure. A page w’as there also, resting 
on a bench half covered with armor, and, as 
soon as his lord appeared, he sprang to arm him, 
asking, as Madame De Brecy had asked, “ Are 
they the English V' 

“ No, boy — no !” replied De Brecy ; and then, 
turning to his mother, he said, “ There is no 
need of great haste. We shall hear more pres- 
ently. The fact is, the Count of Richmond,” 
he continued, in a quiet, narrative tone, “ has 
ridden the court somewhat too hard. He forced 
La Trimouille upon the king, as I told you the 
other night ; and now he would rule La Tri- 
mouille, and, through him, his sovereign. He 
found himself mistaken, however ; for Tri- 
mouille is a very different person to deal with 
from Giac or Beaulieu. Finding himself op- 
posed, he determined to employ force ; joined 
with himself the Counts of La Marche and 
Clermont, and advanced upon Chatellerault. 
When I left Poictiers, the king had chosen a de- 
cided part, and ordered the gates of Chatelle- 
rault to be closed against the counts. It was 
supposed, indeed, that the matter would be soon 
accommodated ; for Richmond is needful to the 
king, and is himself but a mere cipher, except 
when serving his royal master. But since my 
arrival here, I have heard that, instead of sub- 
mitting dutifully, he has levied larger forces, 
and is marching upon Bourges. If the troops 
I have seen be his, we shall soon hear more, 
and then — though doubtless there would be ho 
great danger in staying — it may be better to re- 
tire before them. How do you go, dear Agnes 1 
In the litter with my mother 1” 


AGNES 

“ Oh, no ; I will ride,” replied the beautiful 
girl. “ I have become as good a cavalier as 
any man in your band.” 

“Well, then, you shall be my second page,” 
said Jean Charost, with a smile. “Come and 
buckle this strap on my shoulder — the boy can 
hardly reach it.” 

Agnes sprang forward and buckled the strap, 
and Jean Charost gayly kissed her cheek, say- 
ing, “Thanks for the service, dear Agnes.” 

His tone and manner were altogether so easy 
and unconcerned, that even Madame De Brecy 
could hardly suppose that there was any cause 
for fear ; but, a moment after, the trumpet was 
heard to sound twice from the tower above, 
and then the step of the soldier descending the 
stairs heavily. 

“ Now, dear mother,” said Jean Charost, 
taking the old lady’s hand, “you must let me 
lead you to your litter; for these friends of 
ours are coming this way. Run, boy, and tell 
Martin Grille and the rest to mount, and be 
gone on the road to De Brecy. Come, Agnes, 
come.” 

All were soon in the court-yard. It may 
seem an ungallant comparison ; but alt light 
things are more easily moved than weightier 
ones, and women, like dust, are soon disturbed 
by bustle. The very haste with which her son 
spoke destroyed all Madame De Brecy’s confi- 
dence, agitated and alarmed her. Even Agnes 
felt a sort of thrill of apprehension come over 
her heart. But in those perilous times people 
were drilled into promptitude. Madame De Bre- 
cy and two of the maids were soon in the litter, 
and Agnes mounted on her horse by Jean Cha- 
rost’s side. She had seen him in times of suf- 
fering and of captivity ; she had seen him go 
forth to battle and to danger ; she had seen him 
in the chivalrous sports which in those times 
w'ere practiced in almost every castle in the 
land ; but she had never ridden by his side in 
the hour of peril and command. On many a 
former occasion, deep interest, compassion, ad- 
miration perhaps, had been excited in her bo- 
som ; but now other sensations arose as she 
heard the clear, plain orders issue from his lips, 
and saw the promptness and submission with 
which all around obeyed. Surely woman was 
formed to yield, and, beyond all doubt, there is 
something very admirable to her eyes in the 
display of power. But she was to witness more 
before the day closed. 

As they issued forth upon the road down to 
the village of St. Florent, nothing was to be seen 
which could create the least alarm ; and, turn- 
ing toward Sober, all seemed fair and open. 
But still Jean Charost was watchful and anx- 
ious, throwing out several men in front, and 
detaching others to the rear, while, as they ap- 
proached the little valley which lies between 
the Cher and the Avon, and gives name to the 
small hamlet of La Vallee, he sent one of the 
soldiers on whom he could trust to the top of 
the church tower, to reconnoitre the country 
around. The man came back at speed, and re- 
joined the party ere they had proceeded far, 
bringing the intelligence that he had seen a | 
considerable body of horse following slowly at 
about half a league’s distance. 

“ Then we have plenty of time,” said Jean 
Charost, in an easy tone ; but still he rather | 


SOREL. 123 

hurried the horses, and, mounting the hill, the 
towers of Bourges were soon in sight. 

At that time the road to Mont Lugon entered 
the road to Bourges much nearer to the city 
than it does at present, and it was along the 
former that the way of Jean Charost lay in go- 
ing to De Brecy, if he wished to avoid passing 
through the city itself But as he approached 
the point of separation, the sound of a trumpet 
on the right met his ear, and, galloping up a 
little eminence, he saw a large body of cross- 
bow men, with some thirty or forty men-at-arms 
coming up from the side of Lu 9 on. They were 
near enough for the banners to be visible, and 
he needed nothing more to decide him. Wheel- 
ing his horse, he hurried down the hill again, 
and, speaking to his lieutenant, said, “There 
are the men of La Marche in our way. There 
is nothing for it but to go through Bourges.” 

“ Here is Hubert come back from the front, 
sir,” replied the lieutenant at once, “ to tell us 
that they have got a party on the bridge over 
the Avon. They shouted to him to keep back ; 
so they will never let us pass into Bourges.” 

“ The best reason for going forward,” an- 
sw'ered Jean Charost, in a gay tone. “ We are 
nicely entangled ; but we have made our way 
through, against worse odds than this. How 
many are there, Hubert!” 

“ Much about our own numbers, dL: sir,” re- 
plied the man. The others are a great deal 
further off ; but we are right between them.” 

“ Oh, Jean, will you be obliged to surrender 1” 
asked Agnes, with a pale face. 

“ Surrender!” exclaimed Jean Charost, point 
ing to his pennon, w'hich was carried by one of 
the men. “ Shall De Brecy’s pennon fall, my 
Agnes, before a handful of rebels, and you by 
my side 1 Give me my lance. Now mark me, 
Dubois The bridge is narrow ; not more than 
two can pass abreast. You lead the right file, 
Courbeboix the left. Valentin, with the eight 
last men, escort the litter and this lady. The 
object is to give them a free passage. We must 
beat the rebels back off the bridge, and then dis- 
perse them over the flat ground beyond. Go 
back to the side of the litter, my Agnes. ’Twcre 
better you dismounted and joined my mother. 
Go back, dear girl ; we must lose no time. 
Now, loyal gentlemen, use the spur. They 
have bid us back ; I say, forward !” 

Agnes was alarmed, but less for herself than 
for him ; and, notwithstanding the wish he had 
expressed, she kept her seat upon her horse’s 
back, with her eyes straining upon the front, 
where she saw the plume of blue and white in 
De Brecy’s crest dancing in the air, as his horse 
dashed on. 

On the little party w'ent ; words were passed 
forward from front to rear ; quicker and quicker 
they moved forward, till a short turn of the road 
showed them the bridge over the Avon, partly 
occupied by a party of horse, several of whom, 
however, had dismounted, and seemed to be 
gazing nonchalantly up toward the walls of 
Bourges. 

Jean Charost gave them no time to question 
I or prepare ; for he knew right well who they 
were, and why they were there. Agnes saw 
him turn for an instant in the saddle, shout 
loudly a word which she did not clearly hear, 

I and the next moment his horse dashed forward 


124 


AGNES SOREL. 


to the bridge, at what seemed to her almost 
frantic speed. She saw him couch his lance 
and bend over his saddle-bow ; but the next in- 
stant, the greater part of his troop following, 
hid him from her sight. There was a moment- 
ary, check to their headlong speed upon the 
bridge, and she could clearly see some one fall 
over into the water. All the rest was wild 
confusion — a mass of struggling men and hor- 
ses rearing and plunging, and lances crossed, 
and waving swords and axes. Oh, how her 
young heart beat ! But as she still gazed, not 
able to comprehend what she beheld, one of the 
soldiers suddenly took her horse by the rein, 
saying, “ Come on, dear lady — come on. Our 
lord has cleared the way. The bridge will be 
free in another minute. ’Tis seldom De Brecy 
gives back before any odds.” 

Agnes could have kissed him ; but on they 
went, and she soon saw that he was right. 
Driven on into the open space beyond the bridge, 
the men of the Count La Marche still main- 
tained the combat ; but they were evidently 
worsted, for some were beaten back to the 
right, some to the left, and some got entangled 
in the marshy ground, and seemed scarcely 
able to extricate their horses. To Agnes’s 
great joy, however, she saw the blue and white 
plume still waving on the right, and a clear 
space before them up to the walls of the city. 
Forward pressed the man who had hold of her 
rein ; the litter came after it, as fast as the 
horses could bear it, followed by three or four 
servants in straggling disarray, but flanked on 
either side by several stout men-at-arms. This 
was not all, however, which Agnes saw when 
she looked back to assure herself of the safety 
of Madame De Brecy. On the other side of the 
bridge, and across the marsh which lies to the 
east, she beheld a large, dark body of spears 
moving on rapidly, and at the same time, as 
they came closer to the walls of the town, cries 
and shouts were heard, apparently from within. 

” By the Lord ! I believe they have won the 
city,” exclaimed the soldier who was guiding 
her; and almost at the same moment, a man 
from the battlement over the gate shouted 
something to the conductor, who replied, “The 
Seigneur De Brecy, just from Poictiers. Long 
live King Charles !” 

“Ride quick to the castle gate!” cried the 
man from above. “The Count of Richmond 
is in the city. They are fighting in the streets ; 
but we are not enough to hold the town. To 
the castle — to the castle !” and he himself ran 
along the battlements to the westward. 

Agnes’s guide turned in the same direction, 
but was met by De Brecy coming at full speed, 
a little in advance of his men, who now, gath- 
ered all together again in good order, were ap- 
proaching the gate which Agnes and her com- 
panion had just left. 

Jean Charost heard the tidings with evident 
pain and anxiety ; but there was no time for 
deliberation, and, with one cheering word to 
Agnes, he wheeled his horse and galloped on to 
another gate hard by, close to which rose up 
the large round tower and smaller square keep 
of the old citadel, of Bourges. Strong works, 
according to the system of fortification of that 
day, connected the castle with the gate below, 
and the soace between the wall and the marsh 


I was very narrow, so that the place was consid- 
ered almost impregnable on that side. A num- 
ber of persons were seen upon the towers as 
Agnes rode on ; and when she reached the cas- 
tle draw-bridge, she found De Brecy arguing 
with a little group of armed men upon the cren- 
elated gallery of the gate-tower, who seemed 
little disposed to give him admission. 

“Tell Monsieur De Royans,” he exclaimed, 
“ that it is his old friend De Brecy ; and in Heav- 
en’s name make haste I They are rallying in 
our rear, and the other squadrons coming on. 
You can not suppose that I would attack and 
rout my own friends. You have yourselves 
seen us at blows on the meadow. Wheel the 
men round there, Dubois, behind the litter,” he 
continued,” shouting to his lieutenant. “ Bring 
their spears down, and drive those fellows into 
the marsh, if they come near enough.” 

As he spoke, however, the chains of the 
draw-bridge began to creak and groan, a large 
mass of wood-work slowly descended, and the 
portcullis was raised. 

“ Forward, Agnes, forward !” cried De Bre- 
cy, riding toward the rear; and while he and a 
few of his followers kept the enemy in check, 
the rest of the party passed over the bridge, till 
they were all closely packed in the space be- 
tween the portcullis and the gate. The latter 
was then opened, and riding on, Agnes found 
herself in a small open sort of court, surround- 
ed by high walls, between the inner and the 
outer gates. There were stone stair-cases 
leading up to the ramparts in different direc- 
tions, and down one of these flights a gentle- 
man in steel armor was coming slowly when 
the troop entered. 

“ Where is De Brecy 1” he exclaimed, look- 
ing down upon the group below. “ I do not 
see him. Varlet, you have not shut him out?” 

“ No, no ; lam here !” cried the voice of De 
Brecy, riding in from under the arch, while the 
portcullis clanged, and the draw-bridge creaked 
behind him. 

“ Pardi ! De Brecy,” cried the man from 
above, “ you have brought us a heap of women. 
Men are what we want, for we have only pro- 
visions for a week, and we shall be closely 
pressed, I can tell you.” 

“ Here are forty-seven horses,” answered De 
Brecy, “ which will feed the whole castle for a 
month, in case of need. But is there no means 
of passing through the town"?” 

“ Impossible I” cried the other. “They are 
just now fighting in the castle street, to bring 
in safely the grain out of the corn-market.” 

Agnes then, for the first time, became fully 
aware of her situation, and that she was des- 
tined to be for some time the tenant of a small 
citadel, closely besieged, and but very ill pro- 
vided to resist. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

The power of the mind to accommodate it- 
self to all things is curiously displayed in the 
zest and carelessness with which soldiers, in 
the busy time of war, enjoy all short intervals 
of repose. The whole morning had been passed 
in skirmishing in the streets of Bourges, in 


AGNES 

strengthening every defense of the castle, and 
in collecting whatever provisions could be found 
in the neighboring houses, so long as the small- 
ness of the force in the town permitted parties 
to issue forth from the citadel. But in the 
course of the day, the troops of the Count of 
La Marche and of the Count of Clermont en- 
tered Bourges, and joined the Count of Rich- 
mond. A strong party was posted across the 
river opposite to the gate of the castle, another 
occupied the bridge, and the blockade of the 
citadel was complete. Weary, however, with 
the long march and a morning’s skirmishing, 
the troops of the revolted lords did not press 
the siege during the rest of the day. The de- 
fenders of the citadel, too, had but little oppor- 
tunity of annoying the enemy or serving them- 
selves ; and, Rom three o’clock till nightfall, 
nothing occurred but an occasional shot of a can- 
non or a culverine, directed at any group of the 
enemy who might appear in the castle street, 
or at the parties on the opposite side of the riv- 
er. True, the citadel was surrounded on every 
side by a strong force ; true, the siege was 
likely to commence on the following day with 
vigor and determination ; but still a sort of tacit 
truce was established for the time ; and could 
any one have seen the little party of superior 
officers seated together in the castle of Bourges 
that night at supper, they would have seemed 
but a gay assembly of thoughtless men met 
together on some occasion of merry-making. 
They laughed, they talked, and some of them 
drank deep ; but none of them seemed to give 
one thought to their perilous situation, trusting 
confidently to the precautions they had taken 
for defense, and to the care and faith of those 
who had been left upon guard. 

Jean Charost, though perhaps the gravest of 
the party, seemed for the time as indifferent to 
the fate of the citadel as the rest ; and, seated 
next to Juvenel de Royans, conversed upon any 
subject on earth but the state of Bourges, dwell- 
ing upon former times and past-by occurrences, 
the days they had spent together in the house- 
hold of the Duke of Orleans, their after meet- 
ings, and the fatal events of Monterreau. 

“ What a strange thing life is, De Brecy !” 
said his companion. “ Here you and I meet, 
first as enemies, and are ready to cut each oth- 
ers throats; then as young friends and brothers- 
in-arms, ready to sacrifice our lives for one 
another ; and then here we are, beleaguered in 
this fusty old chateau of Bourges, with Rich- 
mond, who never spa es an enemy, and La 
Marche, who seldom spares a friend, ready to 
dig us out of our hole, as they would a badger 
on the side of a hill. I forgot to mention our 
short meeting at Monterreau, for, by my faith ! 
I was too ill at that time even to do the honors 
of my quarters.” 

“You seem wonderfully improved in health, 
De Royans,” said Jean Charost. “You look 
younger by four or five years than you did then.” 

“ But a poor, battered old soldier, after all,” 
replied De Royans, tossing up with his fingers 
one of the curls that hung at the back of his 
neck. “ You see I am as gray as a wild goose. 
However, I am much better. A year’s idleness 
on the banks of the Garonne, a little music, 
and a great deal of physic, cured my wounds, 
loosened my stiff joints, and enabled me to keep 


SOREl 125 

my horse’s back almost as well as ever. I have 
got on in the world, too, De Brecy ; have made 
some very nice little captures, paid off many 
old debts, and got two companies of arquebus- 
iers under my command instead of one. I wish 
to Heaven I had them all here. Had they been 
in the town, Richmond would never have got 
in by the northwest gate.” 

“ I marvel much that he did, I will confess,” 
replied Jean Charost. “ Two days ago I sent 
Monsieur de Blondel there intimation that 
Bourges was in danger. I thought fit, indeed, 
to tell him the source from which I received 
the intelligence ; but still it might have kept 
him on his guard.” 

“ Oh, I heard all about that,” replied De Roy- 
ans, laughing ; “ and we were all more or less 
in fault. When Blondel got your letter, he 
held it in his hand, after reading it, and cried 
out, in his jeering way, ‘ What’s a hermit 1 and 
what does a hermit know of war? Then said 
Gaucourt, ‘ As much as the pig does of the bag- 
pipe ; and why should he not?’ and then they 
all laughed, and the matter passed by. But 
who is this hermit who has got such good in- 
telligence 1 On my life ! De Brecy, it would 
be well to have him in pay.” 

“ That you could hardly have,” replied De 
Brecy. “ He was once a famous soldier, my 
friend, but has met with many disasters in life. 

I went to see him upon other matters ; but the 
intelligence he gave me, transmitted from 
mouth to mouth, I believe, all the way from 
Chatellerault to St. Florent, seemed so import- 
ant that I left him without even touching upon 
my object. He is looked upon as a saint by all 
the country round, and the peasantry tell him 
every thing they hear.” 

“ But what, in Fortune’s name, took you to 
a saint?’ asked Juvenel de Royans, laughing. 
“ Was it to ask for absolution for wandering 
about the land with that lovely little creature 
you brought hither?’ 

Jean Charost looked grave, but answered, 
calmly, “ That was no sin, I trust, De Royans, 
for I may call her my adopted daughter. She 
had, indeed, something to do with my going to 
see him, for he has great knowledge of her 
fate and history ; and I wished to learn more 
than he has ever yet told me. It is time that 
she herself should know all. She will, it is true, 
have all I die possessed of; but still I could 
wish the mystery of her birth cleared up.” 

“ Why, surely this is not the infant you 
brought out of the wood near Beaute sur 
Marne — the child we had so many jests upon ?* 
exclaimed De Royans. 

“ The very same,” replied Jean Charost. 
“ She has been as a child to me ever since.” 

“ We thought she was your child then,” re- 
plied De Royans, “ Heaven help us ! I have 
learned to think differently since of many things, 
and would gladly have wished you joy of youi 
babe, if you had acknowledged her, right or 
wrong ; but, as it was, we all vowed she was 
yours, and only called you the sanctified young 
sinner. Two or three times I went down to 
good Dame Moulinet’s to see if I could not get 
the truth out of her ; but, though she seemed 
to know much, she would say little.’^ 

“ Do you know if Dame Moulinet be still liv- 
ing, and where she is?’ asked Jean Charost. 


126 


AGNES SOREL. 


“ She was living a year ago, and not ten 
miles from Bourges,” replied De Royans. “In 
the village of Solier, hard by the Cher. I had 
one of her sons in my troop. She and her hus- 
band are well to do now, for they have got her 
father’s inheritance. They were tenants of 
that old Monsieur de Solier whose daughter 
our dear lord and master, the Duke of Orleans, 
carried off by force from her husband.’’ 

Jean Charost started, and exclaimed, “ Mer- 
ciful Heaven !” 

“ Ay, it was bad enough,” said De Royans. 
“Our noble lord had his little faults and his 
great ones ; and some of them, I have a notion, 
imbittered his last hours. This, above all 
others, I believe, affected him, for it had a ter- 
rible termination, as I dare say you remember.” 

“ No — no,” answered Jean Charost ; “ I nev- 
er heard of it before. How did it endl” 

“ Why, the lady died,” said De Royans, 
gravely. “ No one of the household very well 
knew how, unless it was Lomelini. Some say 
that she was poisoned — some, that she was 
stabbed in her sleep.” 

“ Not by the duke !” exclaimed Jean Cha- 
rost, with a look of horror. 

“ God forbid !” cried Juvenel de Royans, ea- 
gerly. “ He only loved her too well. No ; 
there were strange tales going ; but certain it 
is she died, and her death nearly deprived the 
duke of reason, they thought. Now, I recol- 
lect, you first came about that very time. The 
lady had been ill some months ; but, as there 
was the cry of a babe in the house — one might 
hear it from the garden — we thought that nat- 
ural enough. Her death, however, surprised 
us all. Hypocritical Lomelini would have us 
believe that it was remorse that killed her ; but 
there were a great many strange things took 
place just then. One of the judges of the Cha- 
telet was brought to the palace — there were 
secret investigations, and I know not what. 
Your coming about that time made us think 
you had something to do wdth the affair. Some 
said you were her younger brother. But what 
makes you look so sad, De Brecy 1” 

“ The subject is a sad one,” answered Jean 
Charost ; “ and, moreover, new lights are 
breaking upon me, De Royans. Do you think, 
if Lomelini is still living, he could give me in- 
formation upon those events 1” 

“ He could, if he would,” answered his com- 
panion. “ He is living, and as sleek as ever, 
and Abbot of Briare ; but I can tell you, I think, 
all that remains to be told. Poor old Monsieur 
De Solier died of grief. I shall never forget his 
comiiig to the Palais d’Orleans, to persuade the 
duke to give his daughter up, nor the despair 
of his countenance when the duke would not 
see him. The husband made away with him- 
self, I believe, which was a pity, for they say 
this Count De St. Florent was as good a sol- 
dier as any of his day, and had fought in many 
a battle under Charles the Fifth. However, 
he never was heard of more, from the time tbe 
duke carried off his wife, during his absence. 
That is all that is to tell. One — two — three, 
died miserably for a prince’s pleasures ; and he 
himself had his heart wrung with remorse, 
which is better, perhaps, than could be said of 
most princes. It is a sad history, though a 
brief one.” 


“And the child?” said De Brecy. 

Juvenel de Royans looked suddenly up with 
an inquiring glance. “ I do not know,” he said. 
“ But do you think — do you really believe — ” 

“ I know nothing,” replied Jean Charost. 
“The duke told me nothing of all this. I had 
fancied he might have something of importance 
to communicate ; and, indeed, something was 
said about giving me some papers ; but he was 
murdered, and — ” 

“ Did you never get the packet Lomelini had 
for you?” asked De Royans. 

Before Jean Charost could answer, a soldier 
came into the hall, saying, “ Is there a Monsieur 
de Brecy here ?” 

“ He is here, young man ; what do you want?” 
asked De Brecy. 

“A letter addressed to you, sir,” answered 
the soldier, advancing toward him. 

All eyes turned at once upon the bearer of 
the letter and him to whom it was addressed; 
and De Blondel, who was in command, exclaim- 
ed, “A letter, by the Lord! Unless we have 
taken to writing letters to one another, the 
gates of the old chateau must be more open 
than we thought.” 

“ I found it on an arrow-head, sir, just within 
the east barbican,” replied the soldier. 

“ Well, well. What contains it ?” asked the 
other, impatiently. “ News, or no news, good 
or bad. Seigneur De Brecy?” 

“News, and good news,” replied Jean Cha- 
rost, who had by this time received the letter 
and unfolded it ; “ hear what he says and he 
proceeded to read from the somewhat crooked 
and irregular lines before him the following 
words : 

“ Faithful and true, — This is to have you 
know that King Charles is already on the march 
for your deliverance. Hold out to the last, and 
two days will see the royal banner before Bour- 
ges. Let not your companions slight this no- 
tice as they slighted the last ; for the shameful 
loss of Bourges can only be repaired by the 
brave defense of the castle.” 

“ He touched us there pretty sharply,” said 
Blondel ; “ and, ’pon my life, what he says is 
true ; so I, for one, swear by this flagon ofwine — 
and if I don’t keep my vow may I never drink 
another — that I will bury myself under the ruins 
of the castle before I surrender it. What say 
you, gentlemen? Will you all touch the tank- 
ard, and take the vow ?” 

They all swore accordingly ; for the chival- 
rous custom of making such rash vows had not 
departed, though Chandos, one of the most re- 
markable of vow-makers, had laid his head in 
the grave nearly half a century before. It must 
be confessed, however, that Jean Charost took 
the oath unwillingly, for there were lives in 
that castle dearer to him than his own. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

This is not a book of battles and sieges — those 
fire-works of history which explode with a brief 
space of brilliant light, and leave nothing but 
dust, and tinder, and darkness. The man who 
gave an account of the three great battles of 
the world, and explained that he meant those 


AGNES SOREL. 


127 


which had permanently affected the destinies 
of the human race, probably named three too 
many. There is nothing so insignificant as a 
battle. The invention of the steam-engine was 
worth a thousand of the greatest victories that 
ever were achieved. 

This is no book of battles and sieges, and, 
therefore, I will pass over lightly the events of 
the two succeeding days. Suffice it, the counts 
of Richmond, Clermont, and Marche pressed the 
Castle of Bourges with all the means and ap- 
pliances they could command. They attacked 
it from the country side ; they attacked it from 
the city ; they assailed the gates and barriers 
sword in hand ; they endeavored to escalade 
the walls ; but they were met at every point with 
stern and determined resistance, and though by 
no means well prepared for defense, the chateau 
held out ; the besiegers lost many men, and 
gained nothing. 

In the midst of these scenes, Jean Charost 
was not inactive. Now on the walls, now at 
the barricades, and now quietly sitting in the 
high upper chamber of the round tower, with 
Agnes, and his mother, and their maids plying 
the busy silk with trembling fingers, he tried to 
give encouragement to the soldiery, and to re- 
store confidence and calmness to the women. 
There was something in his aspect, something 
in the perfect serenity of his look and manner, 
in the absence of every sign of agitation and 
anxiety on his face, which was not without its 
effect, and the news which he brought of the 
speedy coming of the King of France to the ! 
relief of his faithful vassals besieged in Bour- ^ 
ges afforded bright hope and expectation. The 
services of himself and those whom he brought 
were great to the defenders of a citadel too large 
for the numbers it contained ; and his quiet, un- 
assuming bravery, his activity and ready pres- 
ence of mind, won for him that respect which 
pretension, even well founded, could not have 
gained. 

“ I always knew he would make a good sol- 
dier,” said Juvenel de Royans, somewhat proud 
of his friendship and their long companionship ; 
and Blondel himself, one of the first knights of 
France, admitted that he had never seen a 
clearer head or stronger hand exercised in the 
hour of danger. 

At first sight, it may seem strange to say that 
the news of the king’s march, which brought 
hope and relief to the whole garrison— and, in 
one sense, to himself also — filled him, when 
considered in another point of view, with grief 
and alarm. But when Jean Charost considered 
what must necessarily be the consequence — at 
a moment when more than one half of France 
was in possession of a foreign invader, and the 
first vassal of the crown in arms against his 
sovereign — of an actual struggle between the 
monarch in person, and three of those who had 
been his chief supporters, his heart sunk as he 
thought, what might be the fate of France. Dur- 
ing many a moment throughout the first and 
second day, when a pause took place in the at- 
tack, he meditated somewhat sadly of these 
things ; but he was not a man only to meditate, 
without action ; and toward evening he took De 
Blondel aside to confer with him as to what was 
to be done. A few words presented the subject 
to the mind of the other in the same light in 1 


which it appeared to himself, and he then said, 
“ I wish you very much to consider this. Mon- 
sieur De Blondel, as I think anopport unity is af- 
forded you of rendering great service to France. 
Were I in your place, I would open negotiations 
at once with the constable, and represent to 
him the consequences that are likely to ensue. 
It would be no slight honor to you if you could 
induce him to cease the attack, and draw off his 
forces, even before the king appears, and little 
less if you could commence a negotiation which 
might be carried on after his majesty’s arrival, 
and heal these unhappy dissensions.” 

“ By the Lord,” cried Blondel, “ if I were the 
king, I would have the head of every one of 
them, who by his insolent ambition and rebell- 
ious spirits gives strength to the arm of our 
foreign adversary, and takes away the strength 
of France. Nevertheless, I suppose he is obliged 
to temporize. But there are many difficulties 
in the way, my good friend. You are a nego- 
tiator, I am told, as well as a soldier. I know 
nothing of such things, and should only make 
a blunder. I should never know how to use the 
knowledge we possess of the king’s coming 
without betraying the secret to the enemy.” 

“Well, leave it to me,” said De Brecy. “ I 
will act in your name.” 

De Blondel mnsed for a minute. “ On the 
condition,” he said, at length, “ that there is no 
talk of surrendering the castle ; and also that 
you say nothing of the king’s movements till 
he is actually in sight. But w’ho will you get 
to go 1 On my life, the task is somewhat per- 
ilous ; for Richmond is just the man either to 
hang any one who pretends to oppose his will, 
or drown him in a sack, as he did Giac.” 

“ I will go,” replied De Brecy. “ I have no 
fear. • The constable is violent, haughty, dom- 
ineering ; but at heart he has a sincere love for 
France, a bitter hatred of the English, and de- 
votion to the royal cause. Giac he scorned, as 
well as hated ; and besides, Giac stood in his 
way. Me he neither scorns nor hates, nor 
wishes to remove. By your leave, I will send 
out for a safe-conduct by a flag of truce, and 
you shall give me a general authority to treat, 
though, of course, not to conclude.” 

De Blondel was easily led in such matters. 
A good soldier and a gallant man, he command- 
ed skillfully and fought well ; but his political 
views were not very far-sighted, and he was 
one of those persons who fancy they save them- 
selves half the trouble of decision by looking 
only at one side of a question. The authority 
was given as amply as Jean Charost desired, 
and nearly in words of his own dictation : a flag 
of truce was sent out to demand a pass for the 
Seigneur De Brecy, in order to a conference 
with the lord constable, and the bearer speedily 
returned with the paper required, reporting that 
he had remarked much satisfaction among the 
rebel leaders at the message which be had car- 
ried them, in which they doubtless saw an indi- 
cation of some intention to capitulate. 

A slight degree of agitation was apparent 
upon Blondel’s face, as Jean Charost, divested 
of his harness, and armed only with sword and 
dagger, prepared to set out upon his enterprise. 
“ I do not half like to let you go, sir knight,” he 
said. “ This Richmond is a very furious fel- 
low. There is no knowing what he may do,” 


J28 


AGNES SOREL. 


“I do not fear,” repeated Jean Charost. 
“But, in case of any accident, De Blondel, I 
trust in your honor and your kindness to pro- 
tect the ladies whom I leave here with you. 
They have some thirty or forty men with them 
who would each shed the last drop of his blood 
in their defense ; but the honor of a knight, 
and that knight De Blondel, is a surer safeguard 
than a thousand swords.” 

The gates of the castle were soon passed ; 
and the first barricade which the assailants had 
raised in the Rue du Chateau was reached with- 
out question. Some half dozen men were ly- 
ing on a pile of straw behind, lighted by a soli- 
tary lantern ; but two of them started up im- 
mediately, and, though neither of them could 
read a word of the pass, they both seemed to 
have been previously informed of what they 
had to do ; for they insisted upon bandaging 
De Brecy’s eyes, and leading him on blindfold, 
as if conducting him through the works of a 
regular fortress. He submitted with a smile ; 
for he knew every step of the city of Bourges 
from his childhood, and could almost tell every 
house that they passed as he was led along. 
The tread of the broad stone sill of the gate- 
way where they at length stopped was quite 
familiar to him ; and it was without surprise 
that, on the bandage being removed, he found 
himself in the court-yard of his old friend 
Jacques Cceur. 

Conducted up a narrow stair-case, in one of 
the congregation of square towers, of which 
the building principally consisted, he was in- 
troduced into a small, but very tall cabinet, 
lined with gilt leather hangings. In the midst 
stood a table, with three gentlemen surround- 
ing it, and a lamp, swinging overhead and 
showing a mass of papers on the board, the 
stern, square-cut head of the constable bent 
over them, the mild and rather feeble expres- 
sion of the Count La Marche, and the sharp, 
supercilious face of the Count of Clermont. 

“ Here is Monsieur De Brecy, I presume,” 
said the latter, addressing Richmond. 

The constable started up, and held out his 
hand frankly, saying, “ Welcome, welcome, De 
Brecy. Sit down. There’s a stool. Well,” 
he continued, as soon as the guard was gone, 
and the door closed, “ what cheer in the cas- 
tle?’ 

“Very good cheer, my lord,” replied De Bre- 
cy. “We have not yet finished the pullets, 
and horse-flesh is afar off” 

The Count La Marche laughed ; but Rich- 
mondexclaimed, somewhat impatiently, “Come, 
let us to the point. You are frank and free 
usually, De Brecy. Say what terms of capitu- 
lation you demand, and you shall speedily have 
my answer.” 

“You mistake my object altogether, my lord,” 
replied De Brecy. “ The castle is less likely 
to capitulate than when first you sat down be- 
fore it. There are now men enough within to 
defend it for a month against five times your 
force, unless you shoot better than you have 
done these last two days ; and we have provi- 
sions for some months, as well for our own 
mouths as for those of the culverins.” 

“Then, in the devil’s name, what did you 
come here for?’ exclaimed Richmond, angrily. 

“Upon business, my lord,” replied De Bre- 


cy, “which I should wish to communicate to 
you alone.” 

“ No, no. No secrets from these gentlemen,” 
said the constable ; and then added, with a hard, 
dry laugh, “ we are all chickens of one coop, 
and share the same grain and the same fate. 
Speak what you have to say before them.” 

“ Be it so, if you desire it, my lord,” replied 
De Brecy. “ I came to offer an humble remon- 
strance to you, sir, and to point out a few facts 
regarding your own situation” — Richmond gave 
an impatient jerk in his chair, as if about to in- 
terrupt him ; but De Brecy proceeded — “ and 
that of the citadel, which I think have escaped 
your attention.” 

“Ay, ay; speak of the citadel,” answered 
Richmond. “ That is what I would fain heai 
of” 

“ I have told you, my lord,” replied De Bre- 
cy, “ that the citadel can and will hold out for 
more than a month, and nothing that you can 
do will take it. Long before that month is at 
an end, the king himself will be here to give it 
relief.” 

“ Well, let him come,” exclaimed Richmond, 
impatiently. “ We may have the citadel before 
he arrives, for all you say.” 

“ I think not, sir,” answered De Brecy ; “ and 
if you knew as much of the affair as I do, you 
would say so too. But let us suppose for a 
moment that the castle does hold out, and that 
the king arrives before you can take it — ” 

“ Perhaps we can deal with both,” cried 
Richmond. 

“And ruin France!” answered De Brecy. 
“I will never believe that the Count of Rich- 
mond— the loyal, faithful Count of Richmond — 
that the Count of La Marche, allied to the royal 
race ; or the Count of Clermont, well known for 
his attachment to the throne, would be seen 
fighting against their sovereign at the very mo- 
ment when, surrounded by foreign enemies, he 
is making a last desperate struggle for the sal- 
vation of his country and your own.” 

He turned slightly toward the Count La 
Marche as he spoke, and Richmond exclaimed, 
in a furious tone, “ Speak to me, sir. I am 
commander here. By the Lord, if you attempt 
to corrupt my allies, I will have your head off 
your shoulders.” 

“You forced me to speak in their presence, 
my lord,” replied Jean Charost, coolly ; “ and, 
whatever I have to say must be said as boldly 
as if they were not here.” 

“Nay, nay; let him speak, good cousin,” 
said the Count La Marche. “ It is but right 
we should hear what he has to say.” 

“My noble lord constable,” said Clermont, 
“ can not blame Monsieur De Brecy for acting 
on his own orders. We were his dear allies a 
moment ago, and partners of all his secrets. 
Why should w^e not hear the young gentleman’s 
eloquence ?’ 

“Would I were eloquent!” replied De Bre- 
cy. “ I would then show you, my lords, what 
a spectacle it would hold up to the world, to 
see one of the first officers of the crown of 
France, and two of the first noblemen of the 
land, from some small personal disgusts at the 
king’s prime minister, violating their allegiance, 
frustrating all their sovereign’s efforts to save 
his country, plunging the state, already made a 


AGNES SOREL. 


129 


prey to enemies by military factions, into great- i 
er danger and confusion than ever, and destroy- 
ing the last hope for safety in France.” 

Richmond rolled his eyes from the speaker 
to the two counts, and from their faces to that 
of De Brecy again, while his fingers clasped 
ominously round the hilt of his dagger. “Let 
him do us justice,” he cried ; “let him do us 
justice, and we will sheathe the sword.” 

“ Even if he have not done you justice,” said 
De Brecy, boldly, “ is this a moment to un- 
sheathe the sword against your lord — that 
sword which he himself put into your hands'? 
Is this a time, when every true son of France 
should sacrifice all personal considerations, and 
shed the last drop of his blood, were it neces- 
sary, for the deliverance of his country, to take 
advantage of the difficulties of his sovereign in 
order to wring concessions from him by force of 
arms 1 But has he not done you justice, my lord 
constable'? Twice has his minister been sacri- 
ficed to your animosity. A third time you quar- 
rel with the minister whom you yourself forced 
upon him, and plunge your unhappy country, 
already torn to pieces by strangers, into civil 
war, because the king will not, for the third 
time, submit to your will. Are his ministers but 
nine-pins, to be set up and knocked down for 
your pleasure ? Are they but tools, to be used 
as you would have them ? and are you an offi- 
cer of the king, or his ruler?” 

The constable started up, with his drawn 
dagger in his hand, and would probably have 
cast himself on De Brecy, had not the Count La 
Marche interposed. 

“Hold, hold !” he cried, throwing himself in 
the way. “ No violence, Richmond. On my 
life, he speaks well and truly. We a e here for 
the public good — ” 

“ At least we pretend so,” said the Count of 
Clermont. “ Really, my lord constable, you 
had better let Monsieur De Brecy go on, and 
speak quietly. We presume that he can say 
nothing that you would not wish us to hear, 
being chickens of the same coop, as you your- 
self have said ; and the sharp arguments you 
seemed about to use might convince him, but 
could not convince us.” 

Richmond threw himself into his seat again, 
and thrust the dagger back into its sheath. 

“ Let us consider calmly,” said the Count La 
Marche, “ what are to be the consequences if 
the king does come to the relief of this castle 
before we have taken it.” 

“ Simply that we shall be besieged in the 
good city of Bourges,” said the Count of Cler- 
mont, “and pass three or four months very 
pleasantly, with such diet and exercise as a be- 
sieged city usually afTords.” 

“ Merely to get rid of La Trimouille,” said 
the Count I<a Marche. 

The door suddenly opened as he spoke, and 
a gentleman, armed all but the head, entered in 
haste. “ I beg your pardon, my lords,” he said ; 
“but I have thought fit to bring you instant in- 
telligence that trumpets have been heard in the 
direction of Pressavoix, and some of the peas- 
antry report that the king is there with a large 
force.” 

“ So soon !” said Richmond. 

“ Got between us and Paris !” said the Count 
of Clermont. 


“The very movement is a reproach, my 
lords,” replied De Brecy. “ It shows that the 
king, unhappily, has been led to infer, from the 
surprise of Bourges, that three of the noblest 
men in France are in league with the common 
adversary. Oh, wipe away such a stain from 
your names, I beseech you ! Send somebody 
to the king to make representations, if nothing 
more ; and let not the Englishmen see true 
Frenchmen shedding each other’s blood, while 
they are riding triumphant over the land. My 
life for it, if you have any real grievances, they 
will be redressed when properly represented.” 

“It is false!” cried Richmond, vehemently, 
catching at some of DeBrecy’s words, and not 
heeding the rest. “ We have no league with 
the enemy. We are faithful vassals of the 
crown of France ; but we can be loyal to the 
king without being servile to his minister.” 

“ I doubt you not in the least, my lord,” re- 
plied De Brecy. “ Had I believed you disloyal, 

I never would have come hither. I have sought 
but to show you what language your actions 
speak, without ever questioning the truth and 
fidelity that is in your heart. All I beseech 
you now to do, is to send some one at once to 
the king to negotiate terms of accommodation, 
and to show the loyalty you feel, before passion 
lead you into absolute treason.” 

“ I think the proposal is a very good one,” 
said the Count La Marche. “We can do no 
harm by negotiating.” 

“ At all events, it will put our adversaries in 
the wrong,” said Clermont. “ What say you, 
Richmond ?” 

“ Well, well,” said the constable, “ I say yea 
also, although I have known more great suc- 
cesses cut short, more mighty enterprises frus- 
trated, more good hopes crushed by small ne- 
gotiation than by battle or defeat. However, 
so be it. Let some one go, though, good faith, 
I know not who will be the man, being sure of 
one thing, that, were I Tremouille, and a sleek- 
faced negotiator were to come with pleasant 
words from Richmond, La Marche, or Clermont, 
I would write my answer on his forehead, and 
hang him on the first tree I found. When men 
have gone as far as we have, to my mind there 
is no going back. However, I yield to better 
judgment. Send some one, if you can find 
him.” 

Clermont and La Marche consulted together 
for a moment or two in a low tone, and, to say 
sooth, they seemed sorely puzzled. But at 
length La Marche looked up, saying, with some 
hesitation, “ Perhaps Monsieur De Brecy would 
undertake the task?” 

“ Good Lord 1” exclaimed the constable, 
slightly raising his hands and eyes. 

“ I will go willingly,” replied De Brecy ; “but 
it can only be, my lords, to open the negotia- 
tion for you. ' Carry it on I can not, as I am 
not of your faction. I shall require a letter un- 
der the hand of one or more of you assuring his 
majesty of the loyalty of your intentions, and 
begging him to appoint persons to confer with 
yourselves or your deputies in regard to certain 
grievances of which you complain. In this I 
think I shall succeed ; but I will bear you back 
his majesty’s answer, and after that can take 
no further share in the affair.” 

“ What, then,” exclaimed the constable, in a 


130 


AGNES SOREL. 


tone of affected surprise, “you do not propose 
to rise upon our tombs to higher honor and pref- 
erment 1” 

“Not in the least,’’ replied De Brecy. “I 
am here, even at this present moment, merely 
as the envoy of Monsieur De Blondel, w’ho sent 
me to you, as this authority will show.” 

“ Pooh, pooh !” said Richmond, in a contempt- 
uous tone. “ De Blondel has no wits either 
for the conception ' or the execution of such 
projects. But one thing I must exact. Mon- 
sieur De Brecy : if we send you to the king, 
you must hold no consultations in the castle 
before you go.” 

De Brecy meditated for a moment, and then 
replied, “See Monsieur De Blondel I must, my 
lord ; for I came from him to you, and must 
render him an account of what I have done. 
That account, however, may be very short. I 
can have him called to the barriers, and any one 
of you may hear what passes. I must, how- 
ever, have horses and some of my train.” 

“Be it so,” said the constable. “I will go 
with you. You, Clermont, are a scribe, so 
write the letter to the king. It will be ready 
when we come back. Doubtless you will make 
it dutiful enough, and you need not say, unless 
you wish it, that Richmond is the only obstacle.” 

With this sneer he rose, put his bonnet on 
his head, and accompanied De Brecy out of the 
room. As they went he said little, and at the 
barrier, both while Jean Charost waited for 
Blondel’s coming and during their short con- 
ference, stood silent, with his arms crossed 
upon his breast. The governor of the castle, 
indeed, noticed the constable first, saying, 
“ Give you good-night, my lord but Rich- 
mond only bent his head gravely in reply, and 
spoke but once during the whole interview, 
saying, when Jean Charost had given directions 
regarding his horses and men, “ Send them 
'down to Jacques Cceur’s house, De Blondel, 
.and that as quick as may be, for fear La Marche 
:ehould have time to change his mind, and Cler- 
gnaont to fill his letter so full of tropes that no 
•one can understand it.” 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

The town and the castle were quiet ; the hate- 
Tul sound of the rattling cannon was heard no 
more ; pierrier, veuglaire,* and culverin were 
still, and the drum and the trumpet sounded 
'not. When Agnes looked out of the high win- 
dow of the great round tower, after a sleep 
'Which had remained unbroken by the clang of 
'war longer than usual, she could almost have 
supposed that every thing was peaceful around. 
The morning sun shone brightly, the morning 
. air was sweet and fresh, few soldiers appeared 
upon the walls of the castle, there was no strife 
;.seen going on in the streets, and it was only 
the sight of a barricade immediately below the 
town gate of the citadel, and a breast- work of. 
• earth some way further down, with half a dozen 


* A large piece of artillery, which threw immense balls 
■ of stone, evidently by the force of gunpowder. It was 
by the discharge of one of these that the famous Earl of 
Salisbury was killed under the walls of Orleans the fol- 
lowing year. 


soldiers loitering about each, that kept up tht 
memory of a struggle. 

Although she knew not the cause, Agnes w’as 
well pleased ; for the very quiet stillness was a 
relief, restoring to the mind calmness and hope. 
But Agnes’s hopes had now taken one particu- 
lar direction, and her first thought was, “As 
there is no active struggle going on, dear Jean 
will be with us soon this morning.” 

But Jean Charost came not. An hour passed 
— an hour beyond the usual time of his coming 
— and both his mother and Agnes began to feel 
alarm. At length they sent down to inquire ; 
but the answer brought up was, he had gone 
out on the preceding night, and had not yet re- 
turned. 

Had the wars and contentions which had 
raged through the rest of France prevailed in 
the neighborhood of Bourges — had Madame de 
Brecy and Agnes been accustomed to the scenes 
of strife and confusion w'hich reigned in the 
rest of the country — had they been drilled, as it 
were, and disciplined to hourly uncertainty, they 
might have felt little or no alarm. But Berri 
had been nearly free from the evils that scourged 
the rest of France, and a wanderingtroop of Roy- 
alist cavalry, or the sudden inroad of a small 
band of English or Burgundians, causing them 
to raise the draw-bridge and drop the portcullis, 
was all they knew of the dangers of the times. 
Even during the short period they had spent in 
the citadel of Bourges, however, Jean Charost 
had always found means to spend a short part 
of each day with them ; and although his not 
coming at the usual hour might not have caused 
much apprehension, the reply that he had gone 
forth from the castle, and not returned, agitated 
them both. 

The alarm of Agnes, however, was much 
more than that of Madame De Brecy. The aged 
feel this kind of apprehension, from many 
causes, much less than the young. Cares and 
griefs harden the spirit to endure. Each sor- 
row has its stiffening influence. Besides, as 
we approach the extreme term of life, we are 
led to value it less highly — to estimate it prop- 
erly. When we contemplate it from the flowery 
beginning of our days, oh, what a rich treasury 
of golden hours it seems ! and we think every 
one like us has the same dower. But as we 
look back at it when our portion is nearly spent, 
we see how little really serviceable to happi- 
ness it has procured, and we judge of oth- 
ers as ourselves. A friend dies ; and, though 
we may grieve, we think that we may soon 
meet again. A friend is in danger, and we feel 
the less alarm, from a knowledge that in losing 
life he loses little — that a few years more or 
less are hardly dust in the balance, and that if 
he be taken away, it is but that he goes from 
an inn somewhat near us to his home further 
off. 

Agnes was very anxious. Her’s was a quick 
imagination, active either in the service of joy 
or sorrow ; and she fancied all that might have 
occurred, and much that was not likely. At 
one time she was inclined to believe that the 
commander of the castle was deceiving Madame 
De Brecy and herself, anxious to save them pain 
— that Jean Charost had been killed, and that 
De Blondel would not tell them. She little 
knew how lightly a hardened soldier could deal 


AGNES SOREL. 


131 


with such a matter. Then, reasoning against 
her fears, she thought that De Brecy must have 
gone forth upon a sally, and been made prisoner, 
and memory brought back all the sorrows that 
had followed Azincourt. But worst of all was 
the uncertainty, the toilsome laboring of thought 
after some definite conclusion — the ever-chang- 
jng battle between hope and fear, in which fear 
was generally triumphant. She sat at the high 
window, gazing over the country round, and 
watching the different roads within sight. Now 
she saw a group coming along toward the gates ; 
but after eager scanning, it proved nothing but 
some peasants bringing in provisions for the 
soldiery. Then an indistinct mass was seen 
at a distance ; but long ere it reached Bourges, 
it turned away in a different direction. Each 
moment increased her anxiety and alarm. One 
hour — two, went by. Again she saw some one 
coming, and again was disappointed, and the 
long- repressed tears rose in her eyes, the sobs 
with which she could struggle no longer burst 
from her lips. 

“ Agnes, Agnes my child, come hither,” cried 
Madame De Brecy ; and rising from her seat, 
Agnes cast herself upon her knees beside Jean 
Charost’s mother, and hid her streaming eyes 
upon her lap. 

“ What is it, my dear Agnes asked Madame 
De Brecy, much moved. “ Tell me, my child ; 
what agitates you thus 1 Tell me your feelings 
— all your feelings, my Agnes. Surely I have 
been to yo® ever as a mother : conceal nothing 
from me.” 

“ Why does he not cornel” asked Agnes, in 
a voice hardly audible. “ Oh, dear mother, I 
fear he is ill — he is hurt — perhaps he is — ” 

“ Nay, nay,” replied Madame De Brecy, “you 
have no cause for such agitation, Agnes. A 
soldier can not command his own time, nor can 
he, amid many important tasks, always find 
the opportunity of letting those he loves best 
know his movements, even to relieve the^ anx- 
iety. A soldier’s wife, my child,” she added, 
putting her arm gently round the kneeling girl, 
“must learn to bear such things with patience 
and hope — nay, more, must learn to conceal 
even the anxiety she must feel, in order to cast 
no damp upon her husband’s spirits, to shackle 
none of his energies, and to add nothing to his 
sorrow of parting even with herself Would 
you like to be a soldier’s wife, my Agnes'!” 

“I know not what I should like,” answered 
Agnes, without raising her head ; but then she 
added quickly, as if her heart reproached her 
for some little insincerity, “Yes, yes, I should; 
but then I should like him to be a soldier no 
longer.” 

A faint smile came upon Madame De Bre- 
cy’s lip, and she was devising another question 
to bring forth some further confession, when 
through the open window came the sound of a 
trumpet, and Agnes, starting up, darted back to 
her place of watching. 

Oh, how eagerly she dashed away the tears 
that dimmed her eyes ; and the next instant she 
exclaimed, with a radiant, rosy look of joy, 
which rendered all further confession needless, 
“ It is he— it is he ! There are a great number 
with him — some twenty or thirty; but I can 
see him quite plainly. It is he !” 

Hardly five minutes elapsed, and Agnes had 


barely time to clear her face of the traces of 
emotion it displayed, when Jean Charost’s step 
sounded on the stairs, and the next moment he 
was in the room. 

Very strange, Agnes did not fly to meet him. 
Agnes uttered no word of gratulation. But she 
stood and trembled ; for there are sometimes 
things as full of awe discovered, within the 
heart, as any which can strike our outward 
senses, and a vail had been withdrawn which 
exposed to her sight things which, when first 
seen, were fearful as well as dazzling. 

“Joy, dear mother — joy, dearest Agnes,” 
said De Brecy, holding out a hand to each. 
“Your prison hours are over. A truce is pro- 
claimed, negotiations for reconciliation going 
on, and you have nothing to do but mount and 
ride away with me. Quick with your prepara- 
tions, dearest mother — quick, my sweet Ag- 
nes !” 

“ Do not burry her, my son,” said Madame 
De Brec>, kindly. “She has been very much 
terrified by your long absence, and has hardly yet 
recovered. She shall go in the litter with me, 
and I will tell Suzette to get all ready for her.” 

“ Terrified for me, dearest Agnes !” said Jean 
Charost, as his mother left the room ; and he 
took her hand in his, and gazed into her face. 
“ Did they not give you the message I sent last 
night"!” 

“No,” answered Agnes, in a low tone. 
“ They only told us this morning, when we sent 
to inquire, that you had gone forth, and had not 
returned. How could they be so cruel. One 
word from you would have saved us hours of 
pain.” 

“ You are trembling now,” said Jean Charost, 
still holding her hand. “ What would you do, 
dear Agnes, if you were a soldier’s wifel” 

“Your mother asked me the same,” answered 
Agnes, with a faint smile, “ and I told her I did 
not know. I can but make you the same an- 
swer, Jean. I suppose all a woman can do is 
to love and tremble.” 

“And could you love a soldier 1” asked De 
Brecy, in a very earnest tone. 

“ Oh that I could,” murmured Agnes, trem- 
bling more than ever. 

Jean Charost led her toward a seat, and as 
she trembled still, and he feared she would fall, 
he put his arm around her waist, merely to 
support her. It had been there a thousand 
times before, in years long past, when she had 
stood by his side or sat upon his knee ; but 
the touch was different now to both of them. 
It made his heart thrill and beat ; it made hers 
nearly stop altogether. 

She was so pale, he thought she would faint ; 
and instinct prompted that the safest way was 
that of the proverb — to speak true words in 
jest. So, in a gay tone, he said, as he seated 
himself beside her, still holding his arm round 
her waist, “ Well, I’ll tell you, dearest Agnes, 
how it shall be. When you have refused some 
half a dozen other soldiers, you shall marry 
Jean Charost ; and I will give you leave to love 
as much as you like, and to tremble as little as 
possible.” 

Agnes suddenly raised her eyes to his face 
with a look of earnest inquiry, and then her 
cheek became covered with crimson, and she 
leaned her head upon his bosom. 


132 


AGNES SOREL. 


She said nothing, however, and he asked, in 
a low and gentle tone, “ Shall it be so, dearest 
Agnes'!” 

“ No,” she answered, wiping away some 
tears. “ I do not wish to refuse any one else.” 

“ Ah, then I must make haste,” said Jean 
Charost, “ for fear you should accept any one 
else. Will you be my wife, my own sweetest 
love 1” 

Again she answered not ; but her small, soft 
fingers pressed gently on bis hand. 

“Nay, but I must have a word,” said Jean 
Charost, drawing her closer to him ; “ but one 
word, dear girl. That little hand can not speak 
so clearly as those dear lips.” 

“ Oh, do not tease me,” said Agnes, raising 
her head for a moment, and taking a glance at 
his face. “ I hardly know whether you are 
bantering me or not.” 

“ Bantering you I” said Jean Charost, in a 
graver tone. “ No, no, my love. I am not one 
to banter with your happiness or my own ; and 
mine, at least, is staked upon this issue. For 
all that the world contains of joyful or of for- 
tunate, I would not peril yours, Agnes. For 
this, when Monsieur De Brives sought your 
hand, I hid my love for you in my own heart, 
lest ancient regard and youthful fondness for 
an old dear friend, should bias your judgment 
toward one unsuited to you. For this, I would 
fain have let you see a little more of life before 
I bound you by any tie to one much older than 
yourself But I can refrain no longer, Agnes ; 
and, having spoken, I must know my fate. 
Will you be mine, sweet love '!” 

“Yes, yes — yes !” said Agnes, throwing her 
arm round his neck. “ I am yours. I ever 
have been yours. I ever will be yours. You 
can not make me otherwise, do as you will.” 

“I will never try,” replied Jean Charost, 
kissing her. “ Dear mother,” he continued, as 
Madame De Brecy re-entered the room, “ here 
is now your daughter, indeed. I know you 
can not love her more than you do ; but you 
will love her now for my sake, as well as her 
own.” 

Madame De Brecy held wide her arms, and 
Agnes flew' to her bosom. “ My child, my dear 
child,” said the old lady. “ But calm yourself, 
Agnes ; here is Martin Grille, come to say the 
litter is ready. Let us go.” 

“ Ah, I thought how it would be,” said Mar- 
tin Grille to himself “ I never saw dear friend- 
ships between a man under forty and a girl 
under sixty end otherwise. My lord, the litter 
is ready, and all the men-at-arms you named. 
The rest, however, seem somewhat surly at be- 
ing left behind ; for I think they have had 
enough of being besieged. I am sure I have. 
I shall not get that big gun out of my head for 
the next month.” 

“ Tell them there is a truce for three days,” 
said Jean Charost ; “ and if, at the end of that 
time, war is not at an end, I will return and 
join them. We must not strip the castle of its 
Wenders.” 

In a few minutes Jean Charost and his little 
cavalcade were beyond the walls of Bourges ; 
but Madame De Brecy remarked that they did 
not take the way toward their own well-loved 
home, but, passing the River Langis, directed 
their course toward Pressavoix. “ Where are 


you taking us, Jean 1” she said to her son, who 
was riding beside the litter. 

“ To the castle of Felard, my dear mother,” 
replied Jean Charost. “ I promised the queen 
that I would bring you and Agnes thither for a 
day. I am in great favor at court now,” he 
added, gayly, “for having had some share in 
bringing about this negotiation. The king, in- 
deed, seems somewhat moody and irritable ; 
but not with me ; and he insists that I shall 
take part in the conferences to be held this 
night at Pressavoix. Nay, dearest mother ; no 
objections on the score of dress and equipment ; 
for, let me tell you, the court is in traveling 
guise as well as we are. and you will find more 
soiled and dusty apparel there than we bring 
into it.” 

Madame De Brecy was in some trepidation ; 
for it was long, long since she had moved in 
courts, and the retired and quiet life which 
she had passed for years unfitted her for such 
scenes. She made no opposition, however ; 
and, in somewhat less than half an hour, the 
little cavalcade began to fall in with the out- 
posts of the king’s army. There was no diffi- 
culty in passing them, how’ever ; for, from the 
moment the truce was proclaimed, the soldiers 
on both posts concluded that some agreement 
would be arrived at between the different fac- 
tions, and began to mingle together with as 
much gayety and good-will as if they had never 
drawn the sword against each other. Groups 
were seen galloping about the fields in different 
directions, standing and talking together upon 
the road, riding rapidly about to and fro between 
Pressavoix and Bourges, and the scene pre- 
sented all the gayety and brilliancy of war, 
without any of its terrors. 

Shortly after passing the second line of posts 
upon the high-road, Jean Charost led the way 
down a narrow lane, which seemed to plunge 
into a deep, heavy wood. All was now quiet 
and solitary, and nothing but the waving 
branches of great old trees was seen around 
for nearly half a mile. The undulations of the 
ground were so slight that no eminence gave a 
view over the prospect, and all that varied their 
course as they advanced were the strongly-con- 
trasted lines of light and shade that crossed the 
road from time to time. At length, however, 
the lane turned sharply, an open space was 
presented to view, and the ancient chateau of 
Felard, which has long since given place to the 
present modern structure, rose upon the sight 
in the midst. It had towers and turrets, walls, 
ditch, and draw-bridge, like most large country 
houses at that time ; but it was by no means 
defensible against any regular force, and was 
only chosen for the residence of the court on 
account of the accommodation it afforded, 
Charles VII. had not yet learned to dread the 
approach of his subjects to his person, to see 
poison in his food, and an enemy in every 
stranger, and the gates were wide open, with- 
out guards, and nothing but a few pages in at- 
tendance, lingering about. 

Descending in the outer court, Jean Charost 
assisted his mother and Agnes to alight, and 
then led them on to the principal entrance of 
the building, where they were shown into a va- 
cant chamber, to wait the pleasure of the queen. 

“ Have the courtesy,” said Jean Charost to 


AGNES SOREL. 


133 


the page, “ to let Messire Jacques Coeur know 
that I am here, after you have informed the 
queen and, turning to his mother, whose face 
brightened at the name of her old friend, he 
added, “ I only saw him for an instant last 
night ; but his presence was most serviceable 
in obtaining for me speedy audience.” 

At the end of about five minutes, the door 
opened, and a lady entered alone, the richness 
of whose apparel, and perhaps still more, the 
brilliance of her beauty, made Madame De Bre- 
cy suppose that she beheld the queen. Jean 
Charost, however, addressed her as Mademoi- 
selle De St. Geran, and introduced his mtoher 
and Agnes to her, not altogether without some 
embarrassment in his manner. 

Agnes Sorel did not seem to remark it, how- 
ever, spoke frankly and kindly to Madame De 
Brecy, and then, turning to Agnes, gazed upon 
her with a look of deep interest. “ So this is 
your Agnes,” she said, turning to Jean Charost. 
“ Oh, De Brecy, do not bring her into courts. 
They are not places for such a flower as this. 
Is not that a hard speech, my dear young lady 1 
Doubtless, your young imagination has painted 
courts as very brilliant places ; but I myself 
know, from sad experience, that they are fields 
where little grows but sorrows, disappoint- 
ments, and regrets.” 

“ I have no inclination, indeed, madam, ever 
to mingle with them,” replied Agnes. 

But Agnes Sorel was by this time in a deep fit 
of meditation, and seemed not to hear the fair 
girl’s reply. After a minute’s silence, however, 
she turned quickly to Jean Charost, and said, 
“Why did you name her Agnes'!” 

“ Youthful regard for yourself, I believe, was 
the chief motive,” he answered, frankly. “ I 
had seen you, dear lady, in many a trying situ- 
ation. You had generously, nobly befriended 
me, even at that time, and I wished this dear 
girl to be like you.” 

Agnes shook her head slowly and sorrow- 
fully, with an air which seemed to speak as 
plainly as words, “You wish so no longer.” 
Suddenly, however, she roused herself, and 
said, with a sweet smile, “ I had almost for- 
gotten my duty. Her majesty has command- 
ed me to bring you to her apartments. If you 
will follow me, Madame De Brecy, I will show 
you the way, and afterward will show you your 
lodging.” 


CHAPTER XLVH. 

Just behind the old stone cross on the green 
of the little village of St. Prive, about half a 
mile south of Pressavoix, a large pavilion was 
erected, not far from the bank of the river. Be- 
tween the two poles which supported it was 
spread a great table covered with writing ma- 
terials, with two or three candlesticks placed 
in no very seemly order. Two men, who ap- 
peared to be clerks, were seated at the table 
mending pens, and venting dry jokes at one an- 
other ; and round about the pavilion, at the dis- 
tance of about fifty yards on either side, patrol- 
ed a number of archers of the King’s Guard, to 
keep prying eyes and curious ears afar. For 
about a quarter of an hour, the tent remained va- 


cant of all but the clerks ; but at the end of that 
time a group of several gentlemen entered it, 
and took their place on the northern side of the 
table, not sitting down, but standing together 
conversing earnestly, though in low tones. 
Shortly after, Jean Charost and Monsieur De 
Blondel appeared, and, joining the others, took 
part in their conversation. Then came Rich- 
mond, La Marche, and Clermont, with several 
other gentlemen of their faction ; but these re- 
mained to the south of the table, although an 
occasional word or two passed between them 
and those on the other side. 

“ Does his majesty come in person !” said 
Richmond at length, in his deep-toned voice. 

“On my life, I know not,” replied Blondel; 
“ but, of course, I should suppose not, my lord 
constable.” 

“Then what do we wait for!” asked Rich- 
mond, again. 

“Monsieur De la Trimouille is, I believe, 
commissioned by the king to treat — ” said Jean 
Charost ; “ at least, I heard so, my lord, while 
I was at the castle of Felard.” 

“ By the Lord, he must come soon, then,” 
said Richmond, with a discontented air, “or no 
treating will there be at all ; for I am not go- 
ing to lackey a Trimouille, and wait upon his 
lordship’s pleasure.” 

A few minutes more passed in gloomy si- 
lence, and then the sound of horses coming fast 
was heard upon the road, through the canvas 
walls of the tent. 

The next instant, La Trimouille himself, a 
tall, powerful, handsome man, entered the pa- 
vilion, leaning on the arm of Juvenel de Royans, 
his countryman and connection, and followed 
by Dunois and several others. 

“ I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for keeping 
you waiting,” he said, with the blandest possi- 
ble smile ; “ but I had to hear his majesty’s 
pleasure, in order that there might be no doubt 
or difficulty upon our part. Let us be seated, 
and discuss this matter.” 

Each one took his seat at the table without 
much order, the party of the king on one side 
— for kings were at heads of parties in those 
days — and the party of the three counts on the 
other. A pause ensued, which seemed to fret 
the spirit of Richmond ; for at length he spoke, 
after giving a snort like a wild horse, exclaim- 
ing, “Some one speak — in Heaven’s name! 
What are we here for! Not to sit silent, I 
suppose. Speak, Trimouille !” 

“Right willingly, my lord constable,” replied 
Trimouille. “ You are aware you are in arms 
against the king your sovereign.” 

“ False to begin with,” cried Richmond. “ I 
am in arms against favorites and court flatter- 
ers — in arms to restore to the king the right 
use of his own authority, for the good of the 
nation and the safety of the land.” 

“ In arms against me, you would say,” re- 
plied Trimouille, with a dark spot on his brow 
which belied the smile upon his lips. “ But let 
us hear what you complain of. I know of noth- 
ing done by me which can justify such acts as 
yours. However, if you have cause, state it 
before these gentlemen here present, who are 
commissioned by his majesty, as well as myself, 
to inquire into this matter, and will report to 
him every word you say without gloss or com- 


134 


AGNES SOREL. 


ment, such as you accuse me of making. What 
are your griefs, my lords'?” 

“ Heavy enough,” said Richmond, sternly. 
“ Your ingratitude, Trimouille, I could pass 
over ; but — ” 

“ My ingratitude !” exclaimed the king’s min- 
ister. “I know not that you have given me 
cause to be grateful or ungrateful.” 

“Did I not place you where you are?” de- 
manded Richmond. “ Did I not remove better 
men than yourself to place you there ? Did I 
not force Louvet from the council to make 
room for you, and punish the audacity of Beau- 
lieu ” N 

“And drown Giac,” said the Count of Cler- 
mont, with a sarcastic smile ; and all around 
the table laughed, except Trimouille himself, 
who had married the dangerous widow of the 
deceased nobleman. He waved his hand, how- 
ever, saying, “This is all trifling. I hold the 
place I occupy by the king’s favor and approval, 
and by the act of no other man. But you are 
in arms, you say, for the public service. What 
has been done to give you a color for this pre- 
tense ?” . 

“ I will tell you speedily,” replied Richmond, 
bitterly. “You have frustrated all my plans 
for the service of the state. During this last 
campaign in Brittany, you kept me idle before 
Pontorson, for want of men and money, or it 
would have fallen a week before it did. The 
same was the case before St. James, and now, 
for the last four months, not a livre have I been j 
able to wring from your hands, either for my | 
own pay or to keep my men on foot.” j 

“You have been able to keep them on foot j 
to war against your monarch,” said Trimouille, | 
bitterly ; “ but I will meet the charge with 
frankness and truth. I have not sent you mon- 
ey when you demanded it, for the same reason | 
that I did not send any to my lord the Count 
of La Marche here, to whom I eagerly wished 
to send it — simply because I had it not to 
send.” 

“ A mere pretense,” exclaimed Richmond, 
striking the table with his fist, and rising as he 
spoke. “We have found in the papers of 
Jacques Cceur, which we seized in Bourges, 
proof positive that a large sum was sent to 
Chinon at the very time you refused my de- 
mand.” 

“ Which was all forestalled before it came,” 
said La Trimouille. But his voice was drown- 
ed by the angry tones of the constable, who ex- 
claimed, “ If we are again to be put off with 
such pitiful excuses as that, negotiations can 
produce no good and he turned to leave the 
tent. 

The counts of La Marche and Clermont rose 
also ; but Jean Charost exclaimed, “ Stay, I be- 
seech you, my lords. Consider what you are 
doing — casting away the safety of France, giv- 
ing her up a prey to the enemy, not only sacri- 
ficing your loyalty to your king, but your duty 
to your country. If there be one particle of 
patriotism, or of generosity, or of honor in you, 
stay and listen to what Monsieur La Trimouille 
has to propose.” 

The word “ propose” was happily chosen, 
holding out vague ideas of advantages to be ob- 
tained which affected both Clermont and La 
Marche. 


“ What shall we do, Richmond ?” said the 
latter, in a hesitating tone. 

“ Stay, if you will,” said the constable, gruffly. 
“ You can act for me, if you choose to remain. 
I shall go ; for I only lose my temper.” 

Thus saying, he quitted the tent. La Marche 
and Clermont hesitated for a moment, and then 
returned to their seats ; the latter observing, 
with a quiet sneer, that the constable lately 
gave them more fire than light. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Trimouille, in his 
most placable tones, “ now this hot spirit is 
gone, we are likely, meseems, to come to some 
result. Pray let me hear your demands.” 

The Count La Marche turned a somewhat 
puzzled look toward the Count of Clermont, 
and the latter laughed gayly. 

“ Speak, ! beseech you,” said La Trimouille. 
“What are your demands?” 

“ Why, the first of them we decided upon,” 
replied the Count of Clermont, “ was one so 
unpleasant to utter, that it sticks in the throat 
of La Marche here — simply your removal from 
he council of the king. Monsieur La Trimou- 
ille.” 

“ I will not stand in the way,” replied the 
minister, with the utmost frankness of manner. 
“No personal interest of mine shall prevent an 
accommodation. But upon this point the king 
alone can, of course, decide. It shall be referred 
to him, exactly as you state it. Let us pass on 
to other things. What more do you demand?” 

“Nay, we would rather hear what you have 
to propose,” said the Count of Clermont, who 
began to doubt how the negotiations would 
turn. 

“ I will willingly take the lead,” said Tri- 
mouille ; “ for his majesty’s intentions are kind 
and generous. First, however, it is necessary 
to state how matters stand, in order to show 
that it is by no compulsion the king acts, but 
merely from his gracious disposition. Here are 
three noblemen, two of them closely allied to 
the blood royal, take arms against their sover- 
eign at a time when disunion is likely to be 
fatal to the state. The two I have mentioned, 
his majesty believes to have been misled by the 
third, an imperious, violent man, overestimating 
both his services and his abilities — ” 

“Nay, nay,” cried the Count La Marche. 

“ Hear me out,” said La Trimouille ; “ a man 
who pretends to dictate to the king who shall 
be his ministers, and publicly boasts of placing 
and displacing them at his pleasure. These 
three noblemen actually seize upon a roya! 
city, and besiege the royal garrison in the cita- 
del. The king, judging it necessary to check 
such proceedings at once, marches against them 
as rebels — and in great force. To speak plain- 
ly, my lords, you have five thousand men in and 
about Bourges ; he has ten thousand men be- 
tween you and Paris, five thousand more arrived 
an hour ago at La Vallee, and a large force un- 
der La Hire is marching up from Chateauroux.” 

He paused, and the countenances of the con- 
stable’s party fell immensely. However, the 
Count of Clermont replied, with his usual sar- 
castic smile, “ A perilous situation as you rep- 
resent it, my good lord ; but methinks I have 
heard an old fable which shows that men and 
lions may paint pictures differently.” 

“ You will find my picture the true one, Clet- 


AGNES 

raont,” said La Trimouille, coolly. “ I have 
taken care not to exaggerate it in the least, 
and both the generosity with which the king 
treats you, and the firmness with which his 
majesty will adhere to his determinations, will 
prove to you that he is convinced of these facts 
likewise. He is desirous, however, that French- 
men should never be seen shedding French- 
men’s blood, and therefore he proposes, in mit- 
igation of all griefs, real or supposed, and also 
as a mark of his love and regard for his good 
cousin, the Count of La Marche, to bestow upon 
him the fief of Besan^on. To you. Monsieur 
De Clermont, he offers to give the small town 
of Montbrison, or some other at your choice, of 
equal value. To the other noblemen and gen- 
tlemen I see around you, and whose names 
were furnished to me this morning, each a ben- 
efice, the list of which I have here ; and all this 
upon the sole condition that they return to their 
loyalty, and serve the crown against the com- 
mon enemy, with zeal, fidelity, and obedience.” 

“ And the Count of Richmond,” said La 
Marche. 

“What for the constable 1” asked the Count 
of Clermont. 

A heavy frown came upon La Trimouille’s 
brow. He had remarked keenly the effect pro- 
duced upon the constable’s companions by the 
offers made, and saw that the faction was in 
reality broken up ; and he replied, in a slow, 
stern tone, “ Permission for him to retire un- 
molested to Parthenay, and live in peace and 
privacy.” 

A dead silence pervaded all the tent, which 
was first broken by Jean Charost, who saw 
both peril and injustice in the partiality just 
shown, and attributed it rightly to La Tri- 
mouille’s personal enmity toward his former 
friend. 

“ Nay, my good lord,” he exclaimed. “ Sure- 
ly his majesty will be moved to some less strict 
dealing with the lord constable.” 

“What, you sir!” cried La Trimouille, in a 
sharp and angry tone. 

“ Yes, my good lord,” replied De Brecy. “I 
had his majesty’s own commands to be present 
here, and, as he said, to moderate between con- 
tending claims, and I shall feel it my duty to 
urge him strongly to reconsider the question in 
regard to the Count of Richmond, whom I do 
not mean to defend for the part he has taken 
with these two noble counts ; but who has 
formerly served the crown well, and is only a 
sharer in the same faults as themselves.” 

“You had better be silent, Monsieur De Bre- 
cy,” said La Trimouille, witli a lowering brow. 

“My lord, I was not sent here to be silent,” 
said De Brecy, “and, in speaking, I only obey 
the king’s commands.” 

“ Then go to the king, and hear what he says 
now,” said La Trimouille, putting on a more 
placable air. “ I have seen him since yourself, 
and received his last directions. Go to him, I 
say ; I am quite willing.” 

De Brecy fell into the trap. “ I will,” he 
said, rising. “ If you will proceed with all 
other points, I will be back before you can con- 
clude.” 

La Trimouille saw him depart with a smile ; 
but no sooner heard his horse’s feet, than, sure 
of his advantage, he hurried on all the proceed- 


SOREL. 135 

I ings of the conference, threw in an inducement 
I here, promised a greater advantage there, em- 
ployed all the means he had kept in reserve of 
working upon the selfishness of the constable’s 
late confederates, and in less than twenty min- 
utes had triumphed completely over faith, and 
' friendship, and generosity to Richmond. He 
made the descent easy, however, by leaving all 
questions concerning the constable to be set- 
tled afterward, and succeeded in obtaining a 
written promise from La Marche and Clermont 
to return to their duty, and submit to the king’s 
will, without any condition whatever in favor 
of Richmond. 

His leave-taking was hasty as soon as this 
was accomplished ; and, mounting his horse 
with all speed, he galloped back to Felard as 
fast as he could go. There, approaching the 
building by the back, he hurried up to the king’s 
apartments, and inquired, eagerly, if Monsieur 
De Brecy had obtained admission. 

“ No, my lord,” replied the attendant. “His 
majesty was fatigued, and lay down to rest for 
an hour. We, therefore, refused Monsieur De 
Brecy admission.” 

“You must not refuse me,” said La Tri- 
mouille. 

The man hesitated ; but the minister passed 
him boldly, and knocked at a door on the oppo- 
site side of the ante-room. A moment after, he 
disappeared within, and then the murmur of 
conversation was heard, apparently eager, but 
not loud. At the end of some five minutes. La 
Trimouille looked out, saying to the attendants, 
“ If Monsieur De Brecy returns to seek an aud- 
ience, tell him his majesty will see him at the 
general reception this evening, for which he is 
invited and then drawing back, he closed the 
door. 


CHAPTER XLVHI. 

Many are the perils of greatness, but among 
them all, there are few more disastrous than 
that of being subject continually to influences 
the most corrupt, which poison the stream of 
human action almost at the fountain-head. 
False representations, sneers, innuendoes, mis- 
statements, are ever fluttering about the heads 
of princes, guard themselves how they will 
against them; and I have seen the base, the 
treacherous, the coward, and the fool raised to 
office, honor, and emolument ; the good, the 
wise, the just, and the true rejected, neglect- 
ed, and despised by men, not feeble-minded, 
not corrupt themselves, but strong in intellect, 
clear of sight, and with the highest and the no- 
blest purposes. Princes and powerful men can 
I but, as others do, judge and decide from what 
they see and hear, and the very atmosphere 
around them is misty with falsehood, their very 
closet is an echo which repeats little else but 
lies. 

There was a great hall in the chateau of Fe- 
lard, and in it, about nine o’clock, were assem- 
bled many of the prime nobility of France. Gay 
habits were there, and handsome forms ; and, 
being so numerous, the party of course com- 
prised some who were good and wise. It con- 
sisted principally of men, indeed ; hut there 
were ladies likewise present— the cueen her- 


136 


AGNES SOREL. 


self, Agnes Sorel, several high dames of Berri, 
and ladies attending upon the court. The 
young king, graceful and handsome, stood at 
the upper end of the hall, by the side of his 
wife ; and various guests from time to time ad- 
vanced, spoke a few words to him, and passed 
on. All seemed gay and smiling. The news 
had spread around that the principal conditions 
of a treaty of accommodation with the late reb- 
els had been signed, and joy and satisfaction at 
a result so greatly to be desired, yet which had 
been so little expected, spread a cheerfulness 
like sunshine over all. Little did he who had 
first suggested the steps which had led to such 
a conclusion, and had principally contributed to 
their adoption, dream at that moment of the 
evil that awaited himself. 

Jean Charost, after several persons of higher 
station than himself had passed the king’s pres- 
ence, advanced with a grave air from the end 
of the circle near which he stood. His coun- 
tenance was calm and well assured, though 
thoughtful, and his eyes were raised direct to 
the. monarch. He could see a dark cloud sud- 
denly come upon Charles’s face, and La Tri- 
mouille, who was at some little distance from 
the king, immediately drew nearer to him. The 
king bowed his head somewhat ungraciously 
in answer to the young nobleman’s salutation, 
and then, seeing him pause without passing on, 
said, harshly, “ What is it, Monsieur de Brecy "I 
Speak, if you have any thing to say.” 

De Brecy instantly divined that the king had 
been prepossessed ; but that ancient spirit in 
him, which had led him, when a mere boy with 
the Duke of Orleans, to speak his mind plainly, 
had not been beaten out of him, even by all the 
hard blows of the world, and he replied, with 
one glance at his mother and Agnes, who stood 
at a little distance from the queen, but whom 
he could have well wished absent, “ I have 
something to say, sire, which I would not ven- 
ture to say at present, had you not yourself ap- 
pointed me this as my hour of audience.” 

The king slowly nodded his head, as if di- 
recting him to proceed; and Jean Charost con- 
tinued, “ To-night, by your commands, I took 
part in a conference at Pressavoix, and gladly 
found that your majesty was disposed to be most 
gracious to a number of your vassals and subjects 
who had ventured to take arms upon very shal- 
low pretexts against your authority. Although 
no motive was necessary to explain your clem- 
ency, the motive w'hich Monsieur LaTrimouille 
did express, was to reunite all Frenchmen in 
the service of the country. One solitary ex- 
ception was made in this act of grace and good- 
ness, and that exception was against a noble- 
man who, whatever may have b^een his faults 
lately, has, in times past, served the crown 
with zeal, skill, and courage.” 

The frown was darkening more and more 
heavily on Charles’s brow every moment ; but 
he did not speak, and Jean Charost went on 
boldly, “ I have ventured to believe, sire, that you 
might be led to mitigate the severity of your just 
anger against the constable, and to consider for- 
mer services as well as present faults, to re- 
member how useful he has been, and may be 
still to France, and might be even induced to 
extend to him the same grace and favor which 
you hold out to his comrades in offense.” 


“ Did you hear my will expressed by Mon- 
sieur La Trimouille 1”. demanded the king, 
sternly, and in a loud tone. 

“ I heard what he was pleased to say was 
your will, sire,” replied De Brecy ; “ but I pre- 
sumed to differ with Monsieur La Trimouille, 
and to believe that by proper representations to 
your majesty, w’hich I imagined had not been 
made, you might be brought to reconsider your 
decision, and be gracious in all, as well as in 
part.” 

“ And you expressed that difference at the 
council-table I” said Charles. 

“I did, sire,” replied De Brecy, “judging it 
necessary to the safety of France to do so.” 

“For which, sir,” said the king aloud, and 
using the imperious plural representing the 
many powers united in a king ; “ for which, sir, 
we banish you from our court and presence, and 
make you share the punishment of the fault you 
have defended. You did your best to frustrate 
our purposes intrusted to the execution of our 
minister. You nearly rendered abortive his 
efforts to bring about a pacification, necessary 
to the welfare of the country ; and it is probable 
that, had you remained on the spot, that pacif- 
ication would not have been accomplished. We 
would have you know, and all know, that we 
will be obeyed. We have punished his rebell- 
ion in the Count of Richmond more leniently, 
perhaps, than his offense required, taking into 
full consideration his former services, but weigh- 
ing w'ell the fact that he was the head and lead- 
er, the chief and instigator of the conspiracy, in 
which the rest were but his deluded followers. 
Unwarned by his example, you thought fit to 
oppose our will at our very council-table, and 
we therefore inflict on you the same punish- 
ment as on him. The only grace we can grant 
you is to leave you the choice of your retreat, 
within ten miles of which, wherever it may be, 
we require you to limit your movements. Say 
whither you will go.” 

The first part of the king’s speech had sur- 
prised and confounded De Brecy ; but he grad- 
ually recovered himself as the monarch went 
on. He had long seen that Trimouille had 
sought to establish an almost despotic authority 
over the court of France, and he easily divined 
that Charles was not speaking his own senti- 
ments, but those of his minister. This was 
some consolation, and he had completely re- 
covered himself before the king ended. It was 
more by cbance, however, than any thing else 
that, thus suddenly called upon, he fixed on a 
place of retreat. “ By your majesty’s permis- 
sion,” he replied, “I will retire to Briare. I 
have, however, some weighty business to con- 
clude, having been too much engaged in youi 
majesty’s service to visit De Brecy for several 
years. May I have permission to remain yet a 
few days in this part of the country 1” 

“We give you three days,” said the king, 
coldly inclining his head. 

“ It will need every exertion to accomplish 
what I have to do in the time,” answered Jean 
Charost, with much mortification in his tone. 
“ I will, therefore, beg leave to retire to De Bre- 
cy this very night. Come, my dear mother — 
come, Agnes,” he continued, taking a step back. 

“ Hold !” cried the king. “ Madame De Bre 
cy, of course we do not oppose your departure 


A.GNES SOREL. 


137 


with your son ; but as for this young lady, we 
have had reason to believe very lately, that the 
right to her guardianship exists in us, rather 
than in Monsieur De Brecy. She must remain 
at our court, and under the protection of the 
queen, till such time, at least, as the matter is 
inquired’ into.” 

A red, angry glow spread over De Brecy’s 
face ; and Agnes herself was starting forward, 
as if to cling to him in that moment of anguish 
and indignation ; but Agnes Sorel laid her hand 
upon her arm and held her back, whispering 
eagerly, “ Do not oppose the king now. If you 
refrain, all may yet be well. Resist you can 
not, and opposition will be destruction.” 

“ He has brought her up from her infancy, 
my lord the king,” said Madame De Brecy, in 
an imploring tone. “ I know of no one who 
could have so good a right to her guardianship 
as himself.” 

“ Dare he venture to say that he has any 
right to her guardianship at alH” asked the 
king ; “ that that guardianship is his by blood, 
or that he has received it from one competent 
to give itl” 

“ Perhaps not, sire,” replied De Brecy, bold- 
ly. “ But I know of no one who has a better 
right than myself” 

His eyes were flashing, his face heated, his 
whole frame trembling with emotion ; and, with 
his free and possibly rash habit of expressing 
his thoughts, it is impossible to tell what he 
might have said ; but Dunois and Juvenel de 
Royans took him by the arms, and forcibly drew 
him away from the king’s presence toward a 
door at the end of the line of ladies and gentle- 
men, on the king’s right hand. 

As this painful and exciting scene had pro- 
ceeded, the open space before the monarch had 
been gradually crowded, the ring around had 
become narrower and narrower, and De Brecy 
was soon lost to the monarch’s eyes in the 
number of persons about him. Dunois paused 
for a moment there, urging something to which 
Jean Charost gave no heed ; but nearly at the 
same instant a small hand was laid upon his 
arm, and the voice of Agnes Sorel said, in a low, 
earnest tone, “ Leave her to me, De Brecy ; 
leave her to me. I know all you fear ; but, by 
my Christian faith, I will protect her, and guard 
her from all evil. Here, here — give your 
mother your arm ; and, for Heaven’s sake, for 
your own sake, for her sake, do not irritate the 
king.” 

De Brecy heard no more ; but, with the heav- 
iest heart that had ever rested in his bosom, 
suffered Dunois to lead him from the hall. 

Juvenel de Royans followed, and, when they 
reached the vestibule beyond, he wrung De 
Brecy’s hand hard, saying, “ This is my fault — 
all my foolish chattering. But, by the Lord, 

I will set it right before I have done, or I will 
cut my cousin Trimouille’s heart out of his 
body and with those words he turned sharp- 
ly and re-entered the hall. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

For Jean Charost, a period of lethargy— I 
may almost call it — succeeded the scene last de- 


scribed. A dull, idle, heavy dream — a torpor of 
the spirit as well as of the body. It is not the 
man of many emotions who has the deepest ; 
it is he who has the power, either from tem- 
perament or force of character, to resist them. 
His spirit has not been worn by them ; his 
heart has not been soiled by them ; and when 
at length they seize upon him, and conquer 
him, they have something to grasp. 

It was thus with him. In early life he had 
never known love. The circumstances in which 
he had been placed, the constant occupation, the 
frequent moving from place to place, and the 
absence of any of those little incidents which 
plant and nourish passion, had left his life with- 
out the record of any thing more than a mere 
passing inclination. But when love seized upon 
him, it took possession of him entirely, filled 
him for a few days with hope and joy, and now 
plunged him into that spiritless lethargy. The 
events which were passing around him in France 
came upon him as a vision. Like the ancient 
prophet, he saw things in a trance, but having 
his eyes open ; and they must be pictured to 
the reader in the same way that they appeared 
to him. 

A large, fine city, on a beautiful river, is be- 
sieged by a numerous army. Its fortifications 
are old and insufficient, the troops within it 
scanty, the preparations small. The cannon 
thunder upon it, mines explode beneath its 
walls, the enemy march to its assault ; but 
they are driven back, and Orleans remains un- 
taken. There is a bridge, the key, as it were, 
to the city. It is attacked, defended, attacked 
again. An old castle seems its only protec- 
tion. The castle is attacked, and taken by the 
enemy ; and a man of magnificent presence, 
calm, and grave, and gentle, mounts the high- 
est tower therein, to direct his soldiery against 
the city. Suddenly, the stone ball of a large 
cannon strikes tha window at which he stands ; 
and Salisbury is caVqed away to die a few hours 
after of his wounds.^ 

The city still holds out ; the attacks have 
diminished in fierceness ; but round about the 
devoted place the English lines are drawn on 
every side, pressing it closer and closer, till 
famine begins to reign within the walls. There 
is a battle in the open fields, some miles from 
the besieged place. Wagons and tumbrils are 
in the midst, and gallant men, with the lily ban- 
ner over them, fight bravely ; but fight in vain, 
j They fly — at length they fly. The bravest 
hearts in France turn from the fatal field, and 
I all is rout, and slaughter, and defeat. Surely, 

I surely Orleans must fall, and all the open coun- 
i try beyond the Loire submit to the invader. 

Let us turn away our eyes from this scene 
to another. The king’s council has assembled 
at Chinon ; the news of the defeat has reached 
them. Hope, courage, constancy are lost. 
They advise their monarch to abandon Orleans 
to its fate ; to abandon Berri nnd Touraine, 
and make his last struggle in the mountains of 
Auvergne. The counsels of despair had been 
spoken, nor is it wonderful that a young man 
fond of pleasure, ruled by favorites, weary' of 
strife, contention, and cabal, should listen to 
them with a longing for repose, and tranquilli- 
ty, and enjoyment. Oh, how often is it, in this 
working-day world of ours, that the most act- 


138 


AGNES SOREL. 


ive, the most energetic, the most enduring, 
thirsts, with a burning thirst, such as the wan- 
derer of the desert hardly knows, for the cool 
refreshment of a little peace. He stands in his 
own cabinet, not quite alone ; for there is a 
beautiful figure kneeling at his feet. She raises 
her eyes to his face with looks of love and ten- 
derness, yet full of energy and fire. “ Never, 
never, my Charles !” she says. “ Never, my 
king and master ! Oh, never let it be said that 
France’s king embraced the counsels of fear, 
rather than of courage ; fled without need — 
turned from his enemy before he was defeated ! 
It is God’s will that gives the victory ; but it is 
for you to struggle for it. What if the courage 
of the people of Orleans faint 1 what if a battle 
is lostl what if the English pass the Loire!” 

“ All this is true, or will be true within a | 
month, my Agnes,” replied the king, in a tone i 
of deep despondency. “I can not prevent it. j 
Suppose it happened ; what can I do then !” j 

“ Mount your horse. Set your lance in rest. 
Give your standard to the wind. Call France 
around you. March against the enemy — fight 
— fight — and, if need be, die ! I will go with 
you — die with you, if it must be so. There is 
nothing for me but you and France on earth. 
God pardon us that it is so; but I have given, 
and you have taken from me all else.” 

Charles shook his head mournfully ; and Ag- , 
nes rose slowly from her knees, and drew a , 
step back. “ Then pardon me, my lord,” she 
said, “ if I retire from your royal court to that 
of his highness the Duke of Bedford. It was 
predicted to me long ago, by a learned astrolo- 
ger, that I should belong to the greatest prince 
of my time. I fondly fancied I had found him ; 
but I must have been mistaken.” And she re- 
tired still further, as if to quit the room. 

“ Stay, Agnes, stay !” cried Charles. “ Stay, 
if you love me !” 

Agnes sprang back again, and cast her arms 
around his neck. “ Love you !” she cried ; 

“ God knows I love you but too well ; and 
though our love has humbled, debased, and dis- 
honored me, if it is to last, it must raise, and 
elevate, and animate you. For my sake, 
Charles, if not for your own, cast the base | 
thoughts which others have suggested far away. 
Take the nobler part which your own heart 
would prompt ; dare all, encounter all, and save j 
France, yourself, and Agnes ; for be sure I will 
never outlive the freedom of my country. There 
rs many a noble heart yet beating in our France. 
There is many a strong arm yet ready to strike 
for her ; and it needs but the appearance of the 
king in the field, and proofs of strong determin- 
ation upon his part, to quell the factions which 
distract the land, and gather every noble spirit 
round his king. Whatever your love may have 
done to injure me, oh let my love for you lead 
you to safety, honor, and renown.” 

“ Well, be it so,” cried Charles, infected by 
her enthusiasm. “I swear by all I hold most 
sacred, I will not go back before the enemy. 
Let him cross the Loire — let Orleans fall — let 
every traitor leave me — let every faint heart 
counsel flight. I will meet him in the field, 
peril all on one last blow, free France, or die !” 

Let us back to the besieged city again. 
Gaunt famine is walking in the streets ; eager- 
faced men, and hollow-eyed women are seen 


prowling about, and vainly seeking food. Clo- 
ser, closer draw the lines about the place ; the 
bridge is broken down, as a last resource ; but 
the enemy’s cannon thunder still, and the hands 
are feeble that point those upon the walls. 
Suddenly there is a cry that help is coming, 
that food is on the way ; food, and an army to 
force an entrance. There is a feeble flash of 
joy and hope ; but it soon goes out. Men ask, 
Who is it leads the host ! who brings the prom- 
ised succor ! A woman — a young girl of seven- 
teen years of age — some say a saint — and some 
a fool ; and many weep with bitter disappoint- 
ment. 

Nevertheless, on the day named, the ramparts 
are crowded, people go up to the towers and to 
the belfries. What do they see 1 A fleet of 
boats coming up the river, an army marching 
up the bank, lances and banners, pennons and 
bright arms are there enough. But still the 
hearts of the inhabitants, though beating with 
interest and expectation, hardly give place to 
hope. They have seen French armies as bright 
and gay fly before those hardy islanders who 
are now marching out of their lines to attack 
the escorting force. They have seen succor 
as near them intercepted on the way. But 
right onward toward them moves the host of 
France. Quicker, quicker — at the march, at the 
trot, at the gallop. Band mingles with band, 
spear crosses spear ; the flag of France advan- 
ces still ; the boats sweep on and reach the city ; 
and shouts of joy ring through the air — shouts, 
but not shouts so loud, nor warm, nor triumph- 
ant as those which greet that young girl as she 
rides through the streets of the city she has 
succored. 

j But she was not content to succor ; she 
came to deliver ; and forth she goes again to 
plant her banner between the walls and the be- 
sieging lines, and there she sleeps, lulled by the 
roar of the artillery. 

Again the Maid of Arc is in the field. Again 
the standard of France is in her hand, and on 
she bears it from success to success. The en- 
emy’s forts are taken, the lines swept, the cas- 
tle of the bridge recaptured, Orleans delivered, 
and her name united with it in everlasting 
memory. 

Joy, hope, confidence returned to France, and 
men’s hearts were opened to each other which 
had long been closed. 

Gergeau, Beaugency, and many another small 
town was taken, and across a country delivered 
from his enemies, the King of France marched 
on to take his crown at Rheims. 


CHAPTER L. 

Flitting like shadows in a mist, came many 
a great event in the history of France about that 
time, hardly known or appreciated by any ex- 
cept those who were the immediate actors in 
thern ; but amid them all, with a heavy heart, and 
a dejected spirit, Jean Charost remained in exile 
at Briare. Why he had chosen that small town 
for the place of his retreat, he himself hardly 
knew ; for although no human action is proba- 
bly without its motive, some motives are so 
! quick and lightning-like, that all traces of them 


AGNES SOREL. 


139 


are instantly lost even in the cloud from which 
they issue. It might be that he had been think- 
ing deeply of the words of Juvenel de Royans, 
from the second night of the siege of Bourges 
till the moment when his sentence of banish- 
ment from the court was spoken, and that he 
had fully made up his mind to go thither sooner 
or later to converse with the Abbot Lomelini. 
No other inducement, indeed, could be imag- 
ined ; for Briare was then, as now, a very dull 
small place, with its single street, and hardly 
defensible walls, and nothing to recommend it 
but the smiling banks of the Loire, and the fine 
old abbey at the highest point of the whole 
town. Dull enough it was, in truth, to Jean 
Charost, without one object of interest, one 
source of occupation. Filial love, too, had de- 
prived him of the consolation of his mother’s 
company. The journey from De Brecy to Bri- 
are he thought was too long, the difficulties and 
dangers in the way too numerous for her to en- 
counter them without risk to her health or to 
her life, and he had persuaded her to remain, 
and keep the management of his estates in her 
own hands. Thus, with a few servants, he re- 
mained at the principal inn of the place, poorly 
lodged, and poorly fed, but heeding little the 
convenience or inconvenience of the body in 
the dull, heavy anguish of the heart. His spirit 
fretted sore within him ; but yet he did not ven- 
ture to resist the sentence of the king, unjust 
as it might be. It was a strange state that 
France was in at that period. Nobles would 
actually take arms against the royal authority 
at one moment, and submit to the most arbitra- 
ry decrees the next ; and not only did De Brecy 
remain at Briare in obedience to the king’s com- 
mand, but Richmond, with all his impetuous 
spirit, lingered on at Parthenay for months. 

For some days after his arrival at his place 
of exile, occupied with other thoughts, Jean 
Charost forgot Lomelini entirely ; and when he 
did remember him, and recalled the words 
which De Royans had spoken, he asked him- 
self, “ Why should I seek for information which 
may probably confirm the king’s claim to the 
disposal of her I lovel” 

Man’s mind, however, abhors uncertainty. 
That thirst for knowledge which was kindled 
in Paradise is upon us still. We would rather 
know evil than know not. On the fourth day, 
toward eventide, he set out and walked up to 
the abbey, and paused in the gray light, looking 
at the gray gates. One of the brethren, gazing 
forth, asked him if he would come in and see 
the church, and then De Brecy inquired for the 
abbot, and if he were still brother Lomelini. 

The monk replied in the affirmative, but said 
the abbot seldom received any one after sun- 
set, unless he came on business of importance, 
or was an old friend. 

“ I am an old friend,” replied Jean Charost. 

Tell him Monsieur De Brecy is here. I will 
wait till you return.” 

He was speedily admitted, and Lomelini 
seemed really glad to see him. He had be- 
come an old man, indeed, with hair as white as 
silver, had grown somewhat bowed and corpu- 
lent, and was slightly querulous withal. He 
complained of many things— of man’s ingrati- 
tude— the dullness of the place of his abode— 
the forgetfulness of friends— the perils of the j 


land, and all those things easily borne by the 
robust spirit of youth, which age magnifies into 
intolerable burdens. Still, he seemed gratified 
with Jean Charost’s visit, and besought him to 
stay and take a homely supper with him — poor 
monastic fare. But during the course of the 
evening, and the meal with which it concluded, 
the young nobleman found that his old acquaint- 
ance had lost none of that quiet subtlety which 
had distinguished him in other days, and that 
his taste for good things was in no degree di- 
minished. It had increased, indeed. Like an 
old dog, eating had become his only pleasure. 
He had become both a glutton and an epicure. 

Before he took his departure, the young no- 
bleman asked openly and boldly for the papers 
which De Royans had mentioned. Lomelini 
looked surprised and bewildered, and assured 
him that Monsieur de Royans had made a mis- 
take. “ I recollect nothing about them what- 
ever,” he said, with an air of so much sincerity, 
that Jean Charost, though he had acquired a 
keener insight into character than in former 
times, did not even doubt him. 

He went back from time to time to see the 
.old man, who always seemed glad of his society, 
and, indeed, Jean Charost could not doubt that 
company of any kind was a relief to one who 
was certainly not formed by nature to pass his 
days in a monastery. He remarked, however, 
that Lomelini from time to time would look at 
him from under his shaggy white eyebrows 
with a look of cunning inquiry, as if he expected 
something, or sought to discover something ; 
but the moment their eyes met, the abbot’s 
were averted again, and he never uttered a 
word which could give any clue to what was 
passing in his mind at such moments. 

Thus had time passed away, not altogether 
without relief; a few hasty lines, sometimes 
from his mother, sometimes from Agnes Sorel, 
sometimes from his own Agnes, gave him in- 
formation of the welfare of the latter, and cheer- 
ed his spirits for a day. But often would the 
momentary sunshine be clouded by dark anxie- 
ties and fears. 

He had not heard any thing for some weeks ; 
and after a long ride through the neighboring 
country, he was about to retire to rest, when 
steps came rapidly through the long gallery of 
the inn, and stopped at his chamber door. It 
was a young monk come to tell him that the 
abbot, after supper, had been seized with sudden 
and perilous sickness, and earnestly desired to 
see him instantly. Jean Charost hurried up 
with the messenger to the abbey, and being 
brought into the old man’s chamber, instantly 
perceived that the hand of death had touched 
him : the eyes spoke it, the temples spoke it, 
it was written in every line. 

Lomelini welcomed him faintly ; and as Jean 
Charost bent kindly over him, he said, almost 
in a whisper, “Bid all the others leave the 
room — I have something to say to you.” 

As soon as they were alone together, the old 
man said, “ Put your hand beneath my pillow. 
You will find something there.” 

Jean Charost obeyed, and drew forth a packet, 
yellow and soiled. His own name was written 
on it in a hand which he recognized at once. 

“ Something more — something more,” said 
Lomelini; and searching again, he found an- 


140 


AGNES SOREL. 


other packet, also addressed to himself ; but 
the seals of this had been broken, though those 
on the other cover had been left undisturbed. 
Without ceremony he unfolded the paper, and 
found within a case of sandal wood inlaid with 
gold, and bearing the letters M. S. F. twisted 
into a curious monograph. It opened with two 
small clasps, and within were two rows of large 
and brilliant diamonds. 

De Brecy’s examination had been quick and 
eager, and while he made it, the dying man’s 
eyes had been fixed upon his countenance. As 
he closed the case, Lomelini raised his voice, 
saying, “ Listen, Seigneur De Brecy.” 

Jean Charost put up the packets, and sat 
down by the old man’s side. He could not find 
it in his heart at that moment to speak harshly, 
although he now easily divined why the packets 
had been kept from him so long. 

“What is it, father 1” he said, bending his 
head. 

“What, not an angry wordl” asked Lome- 
iini. 

“ Not one,” replied Jean Charost. “ I have 
too many sorrows of my own, father, to add to 
yours just now.” 

“Well, then, I will tell you all,” said Lome- 
lini. “You think I kept these packets on ac- 
count of the diamonds. That had something 
to do with it ; but there was more. After you 
entered the Orleans palace you were trusted 
more than me. I had been the keeper of all 
secrets ; you became so. The duke’s daughter 
was put under your charge, notwithstanding 
your youth ; and I resolved you should never 
be able to prove her his daughter.” 

“ I knew not that she was so,” replied Jean 
Charost. “The duke himself knew it not.” 

“Nay, nay, do not lie,” said Lomelini, some- 
what bitterly. “I watched you — I watched 
you both well — I followed you to the convent 
of the Celestins, where the murderer had taken 
sanctuary ; and I know the child was made over 
to you then, though you pretended to find it in 
the forest.” 

“ On my Christian faith, and honor as a 
knight,” replied De Brecy, “I heard nothing 
either of murderer or child at the convent of 
the Celestins. The dear babe was given to me 
in the forest by a tall, strange, wild-looking man, 
who seemed to me half crazed.” 

“ St. Florent himself,” murmured Lomelini. 

“I call Heaven to witness,” continued Jean 
Charost, “ I never even suspected any connec- 
tion between the duke and that child till long 
after — I am not sure of it even yet.” 

“Be sure, then,” said Lomelini, faintly. 
“ The duke took her mother from that mother’s 
husband — carried her off by force one night as 
she returned from a great fete, with those very 
diamonds on her neck.” 

“ By force !” murmured De Brecy ; and then" 
from a feeling difficult to define, he added, 
“ thank God for that !” 

“For what I” said Lomelini. “ Doubtless she 
went willingly enough. Women will scream 
and declare they are made miserable for life, 
and all that. At all events, she stayed when 
she was there, and that was her daughter ; for 
I knew the child again as soon as I saw it at 
the cottage, by a mark upon her temple ; and the 
old father died of grief, and the mad husband 


stole in one night and stabbed his wife, and car- 
ried away the child ; and that is all.” 

He seemed to ramble, and a slight convulsion 
j passed over his face. “ I know the whole,” he 
j added, “ for I had a share in the whole ” and 
! a deep groan followed. 

I “ Let me call in a priest,” said De Brecy. 
“You have need of the consolations of the 
Church.” 

“ Ay, ay ; call in a priest,” answered Lome- 
lini, partly raising himself on his arm. “I 
would not have my corpse kicked about the 
streets like the carcass of a dog ; but do not sup- 
pose I believe in any priestly tales, young man. 
When life goes out, all is ended. I have enjoyed 
this life. I want no other ; I expect no other — 
I — I fear no other — surely there is no other. 
Well, call in a priest — haste, or you will be too 
late — is this faintness — is this death 1” 

Jean Charost sprang to the door, near which 
he found several of the monks. The peniten- 
tiary was called for in haste. But he was, as 
Lomelini had said, too late. They found the 
abbot passed away, the chin had dropped, the 
wide open eyes seemed to gaze at nothing, and 
yet to have nothing within them. Something 
had departed which man vainly tries to define 
by words, or to convey by figures. A spirit had 
gone to learn the emptiness of the dreams of 
earth. 

With a slow step, and deep gloom upon his 
mind, Jean Charost turned back to his dwelling. 
As he went, his thoughts were much occupied 
with the dark, sad, material doctrines — philoso- 
phy I can not call them — creed I can not call 
them — which at that time were but too common 
among Italian ecclesiastics. When he was 
once more in his own chamber, however, he 
took forth the packets he had received from 
Lomelini, and opened the cover of the one 
which had the seals unbroken. It contained a 
letter from the Duke of Orleans, brief and sad, 
speaking of the child which De Brecy had 
adopted, of her mother, and of the jewels con- 
tained in the other packet. The duke acknowl- 
edged her as his child, saying, “ I recognized her 
at once by the ring which you showed me, as 
the daughter of her whom I wronged and have 
lost. It was taken at the same time that my 
poor Marie’s life was taken ; for, as you doubt- 
less know, she was murdered under my very 
roof — yes, I say murdered. Had the dagger 
found my heart instead of hers, another word, 
perhaps, would have been better fitted ; for 
mine was a wrong which merited death. I 
wronged her ; I wronged her murderer.” 

He then went on to urge Jean Charost to 
perform well the task which he had undertaken, 
and which he had certainly well performed with- 
out exhortation ; and the duke ended by say- 
ing, “ I have seen you so far tried. Monsieur De 
Brecy, that I can trust you entirely. I know 
tljat you will be faithful to the task ; and, as far 
as I have power to give authority over my child, 
I hereby give it to you.” 

Those were joyful tvords to Jean Charost, 
and for a moment he gave way to wild and 
daring hopes. He thought he would claim this 
right, even against the king himself ; but short 
consideration, and what he knew of the law of 
France, soon dimmed all expectation of suc- 
cess. 


AGNES SOREL. 


The other papers which the packet contained 
were merely letters in a woman’s hand, signed 
Marie de St. Florent ; but they were pleasant 
to Jean Charost’s eyes, for they showed how 
the unhappy girl had struggled against her evil 
fate. In mere than one of them, she besought 
the duke to let her go — to place her in a convent, 
where, unknown to all the world, she might 
pass the rest of life in penitence and prayer. 
They spoke a spirit bowed down, but a heart 
uncorrupted. 

Several hours passed ; not so much in the ex- 
amination of these papers, as in the indulgence 
of thoughts which they suggested ; and it was 
midway between midnight and morning when 
Jean Charost at length lay down upon his bed. 


CHAPTER LI. 


De Brecy woke with a start just n the gray 
of the dawn. His thoughts were confused. He 
had had troublous dreams. He had fancied him 
self in the midst of war and strife again, and the 
well-known sounds, ‘■^Alerte ! alerte f Auxarmesl 
aux armes seemed to ring in his ears. 

In an instant he had thrown on the furred 
gown which lay beside him, and had seized his 
sword ; but the only sound he now heard was a 
sharp tap at the door, and a voice saying, “ Mon- 
sieur De Brecy ! Monsieur De Brecy ! Pray let 
me in. I wish to speak to you in haste.” 

Jean Charost opened the door, and, to his sur- 
prise, beheld the face of his good servant, Mar- 
tin Grille, who had been especially left at the 
court with Agnes, to attend upon and watch over 
her. A vague feeling of alarm instantly took 
possession of De Brecy’s heart, and he exclaim- 
ed, ere the man could tell his errand, “ How is 
your lady? Is she ill?” 

“ No, sir ; not ill,” replied Martin Grille ; 
“ though ill at ease, I have a notion. But I have 
hastened here with such speed that I believe I 
have left my horse no lungs, nor myself either, 
any more than a cracked pair of bellows, to warn 
yojk my lord, of a danger that menaces you. So 
I ^seech you, before you hear it, to order all 
your people to get upon horseback, and make 
ready to set out yourself, for there is no great 
time to lose.” 

^ “ Nay, I must hear the danger first,” replied 
Jean Charost “What is the matter, my good 
friend?” 

“ Well, tell the people to get ready, at all 
events,” said Martin, earnestly; “then you can 
do as you like. Stories are sometimes long in 
telling, questions long in asking, and longer in 
being answered. It is better always, my lord, 
to be ready to act upon the news when it comes, 
than to have to wait to make ready after you 
have got it.” 

There was some truth in what he said ; and 
Jean Charost sent by him the orders he desired, 
nor was he long in giving them. 

“Now tell me all, while I am dressing,” said 
his master, as soon as he had returned. “ I 
know no cause for fearing any thing ; but it is an 
uncertain world, good Martin, and there are un- 
seen dangers around our every step.” 

“ This one is plain enough,” answered Martin 
Grille. “ N6tre Dame is not plainer. It is sim- 
ply, sir, that the king has sent a certain sergeant 
of his, with a long troop of archers at his back, 
to arrest and bring you to his presence. He is 


Ui 

now at Bourges, in the house of good Messire 
Jacques Coeur, which he fills tolerably well ; and 
the distance not being veiy great from Bourges 
to Briare, you may expect our friend the ser- 
geant every hour. It was late at night, how- 
ever, when the order was given, and master ser- 
geant vowed that he would have a nap first, king 
or no king. But, vowing I would have no nap, 
I came away at once; and so you have three 
good hours, and perhaps a few minutes more.” 

De Brecy mused, and then asked, “ Do you 
know any motive for this order?” 

“ None at all,” replied Martin Grille ; “ nor 
can I even guess. But I’ll tell you all that hap- 
pened, as I have it from one who saw all. There 
is one Jeanne de Vendbme about the court; they 
call her also Marquise De Mortaigne— ” 

“ I have seen her,” said Jean Charost. “ What 
of her? Go on.” 

“ Why, she has a nephew, sir, one Peter of 
Venddme,” replied Martin Grille, “ whom she is 
very fond of ; but he is an enemy of yours.” 

“ I never even saw him,” replied De Brecy. 

“ Well, sir, the king’s mind is poisoned against 
you,” said Martin Grille, “ that is clear enough; 
and I know not what else to attribute it to. But, 
upon my word, you had better mount your horse 
and ride away. I can tell you the rest of the 
story as we go. I never was a very good horse- 
man, and, if the sergeant rides better than I, he 
may be here before we are in the saddle.” 

“ Well, be it so,” said Jean Charost, thought- 
fully. “ Gather all those things together, while 
I go and reckon with my host. I would rather 
not be taken a prisoner into Bourges, and I think 
I will prevent it.” 

He spoke with a slight smile, and yet some 
bitterness of tone ; but Martin Grille applied 
himself at once to pack up all that was in his 
master’s room, and in about half an hour Jean 
Charost and his followers were in the saddle. 

“Were it not better to take the road to Bus- 
siere, my lord ?” said Martin Grille, who rode 
somewhat near his master’s person. “ It seems 
to me as if you were going toward Oussiu.” 

“ No ; methinks we shall be safer on this side,” 
said Jean Charost. “ Now, as we ride along, let 
me hear all that has been passing at the court. 
Perhaps I may be able to pick out some cause 
for this sudden displeasure of the king.” 

“Well, sir, I am sorry to be obliged to say 
what I must say,” answered Martin Grille ; “ but 
the king has treated you very ill. ' 1'his Peter of 
Vendome, whom I was talking about — the devil 
plague him ! — is at the bottom of it all ; though 
his aunt, who is a worse devil than himself, man- 
ages the matter for him. She has taken it into 
her head that she must ally herself to the royal 
family. Now, it runs every where at the court 
that Mademoiselle Agnes is the daughter of the 
poor Duke of Orleans, who was killed near the 
Porte Barbette ; that she was intrusted by him 
to your care; and that, for ambition, you want 
to marry her, and then tell all the world who 
she is.” 

Jean Charost had been gazing in his face for 
the last moment or two in silence ; but now he 
inclined his head slowly, saying, “ Go on. I now 
see how it is.” 

“ Well, sir, about a month ago this Jeanne de 
Vendome proposed to the king that her nephew 
should marry our young lady, and the king, it 
would seem, was willing enough ; but a certain 
i beautiful lady you know of opposed it, and, as 


142 


AGNES SOREL. 


she can do nearly what she likes, for some time 
the day went with her. Then Jeanne of Ven- 
d6me went and curried favor with Monsieur La 
Trimouille, who can do nearly what he likes on 
the other side, and then the day went against us 
for some time. The king was very violent, and 
swore that if he had any power or authority over 
Mademoiselle Agnes, she should marry Peter of 
Vendome, though she told him all the while she 
would not, and begged him, humbly and devout- 
ly, rather to let her go into a nunnery. Kings 
will have their way, however, sir, and things 
were looking very bad, when suddenly, three 
days ago, our young lady disappeared — ” 

Where did she go to ? Where is she V’ asked 
Jean Oharost, sharply. 

“ That I can not tell, sir,” answered Martin 
Grille; “but she is safe enough, I am sure; for 
when I told Mademoiselle De St. Geran about 
it, she said, with one of her enchanting smiles, 

* Has she, indeed, my good man ? Well, I dare 
say God will protect her.’ But the king did not 
take it so quietly. He was quite furious; and 
neither Peter of Vendome nor his aunt would let 
his passion cool.” 

“ Doubtless attributed it all to me,” said Jean 
Charost, whose face had greatly lighted up with- 
in the last few minutes. But Martin Grille re- 
plied, to his surprise, “ I do not think they did, 
sir. The painted old woman hinted, though she 
did not venture to say so, that the beautiful young 
lady you wot of had helped her namesake’s es- 
cape ; and the nephew said that if the king would 
but sign the papers, he would soon find the fu- 
gitive, for he had a shrewd notion of where she 
was.” 

“ He did not sign them !” exclaimed Jean Cha- 
rost, with a look of dread. 

“ He had well-nigh done it, my lord,” replied 
Martin Grille. “ Last night, when the king was 
sitting with the queen in the large black room 
on the second floor, which you remember well 
— ^very melancholy he was, for somewhat of a 
coolness had sprung up between him and her 
whom he loves best, and he can not live with- 
out her — they brought him in the papers to sign, 
that is to say, Peter of Vendome and his aunt, 
looking all radiant and triumphant. Some one 
watched them, however; for, just at that min- 
ute, in came the chancellor and two or three 
others, and among them one of the pages, with a 
paper in his hand addressed to the king. The 
king took it, just looked at the top, and then 
handing it up to the chancellor, was about to 
sig«^vhat Peter of Vendome demanded, and let 
him go; but Monsieur Des Ursins — that is the 
chancellor — cried, ‘ Hold, your majesty. This is 
important ; in good and proper form ; and must 
have your royal attention.’ Then he read it. out ; 
but I can not tell you all that it contained. How- 
ever, it was a prohibition, in good set form, for 
any one to dispose of the hand, person, or prop- 
erty of our young lady. Mademoiselle Agnes, ei- 
ther in marriage, wardship, or otherwise, and 
setting forth that the writer was her true and 
duly-constituted guardian, according to the laws 
of France. It was signed ^St. Florent;’ and, 
though the king was mighty angry, the chancel- 
lor persuaded him not to sign the papers till the 
right of the appellant, as he called it, was de- 
cided by some competent tribunal.” 

“ And how came you to know all this so accu- 
rately ?” asked Jean Charost, after meditating for 
several minutes over what he had heard. 


“ Part one way, part another, my noble lord,” 
replied Martin Grille. “ Principally, however, 
I learned the facts from a young cousin of mine, 
who is now chief violin player to the queen. 
When she found her husband so dull that night, 
she sent for Petit Jean to solace him, because 
she could not very well have sent for the person 
who would have solaced him best. He heard all, 
and marked all, and told me all ; for you are a 
great favorite of his. However, I had something 
to do with it afterward myself ; for the king, 
knowing that I was in the house, sent for me, and 
made me tell him whether, when you were last 
in Berri, you signed your name St. Florent. I 
was frightened out of my wits, and said I be- 
lieved you did. The next minute the king said, 
looking sharply at the sergeant, who was stand- 
ing near, ‘ Bring him at once from Briare. Lose 
no time.’ Then he turned to me, with a face 
quite savage, and said, ‘ You may go.’ I thought 
he was going to add, ‘ to the devil ;’ but he did 
not, and I slunk out of the room. The sergeant 
went out at the same time ; but he laughed, and 
said, ‘ Sleep wasted no time, and he was not go- 
ing to set off* for Briare at midnight, not he.’ So 
I did, instead of him ; for as I feared I had done 
some mischief, I thought I might as well do some 
good.” 

'Jean Charost smiled with a less emban'assed 
look than he had worn during the ride ; but he 
made no reply, and during the next half hour he 
seemed to hear nothing that Martin Grille said, 
although it must not be affirmed that Martin 
Grille said nothing. It were hardly fair to look 
into his thoughts, to inquire whether the injus- 
tice he had met with, the wrong which was med- 
itated against him, and the ingratitude for serv- 
ices performed and suffering endured in the roy- 
al cause had shaken his love tpward the king. 
Suffice it, they had not shaken his loyalty toward 
his country, and that although he might contem- 
plate flying with his Agnes beyond the reach of 
an arm that oppressed him, he never dreamed of 
drawing his sword against his native land, or of 
doing aught to undermine the throne of a prince 
to whom he had sworn allegiance. 

At length, however, Martin Grille pulled him 
by the sleeve, saying, “ I can not help thinking, 
my good lord, that you are taking a wrong course. 
You are going on right toward Bourges, and at 
any point of the road you may meet with the ser- 
geant and his men. Indeed, I saw just now a 
party of horsemen on the hill there. They have 
come down into the valley; but that is the high 
road to Bourges they were upon.” 

“ My good friend, I am going to Bourges,” re- 
plied Jean Charost; “ but as I do not intend to 
go as a prisoner, if I can help it, we will turn 
aside a little here, and go round Les Barres, that 
hamlet you see there. We can then follow the 
by-roads for ei ght or ten miles further, and cross 
the liver at Cosne. I know this country well; 
for, during the last tw’elvemonth, I have had no- 
thing to do but to think, and to explore it.” 


CHAPTER LIL 

It gives one a curious sensation to stand on the 
spot where great deeds have been enacted : to 
tread the halls where true tragedies have been 
performed : to fancy one sees the bloody stains 
upon the floor : to fill the air with the grim faces 


AGNES SOREL. 


143 


of the actors : to imagine one’s self surrounded 
with the fierce passions of other days, like mid- 
night ghosts emitted from the grave. I have 
stood in the small chamber where the most bru- 
tal murder that ever stained the name of a great 
nation was devised and ordered by the counsel- 
ors of John of Bedford. I have stood where an 
act of justice took the fonn of assassination against 
Henry of Guise. I have beheld the prison of the 
guilty and the unhappy Mary, and the lingering 
death-chamber of the innocent and luckless Ara- 
bella Stuart. But, although these sights were 
full of deep interest, and even awe, the effect 
was not so strange as that produced by passing 
through ancient places of more domestic inter- 
est, where courts and kings, the brave, the fair, 
the good, the wise, or their opposite, had lived 
and loved, enjoyed and suffered, reveled and 
wept, in times long, long gone by. Often, when 
I have read some glowing description of mask or 
pageant, or scene of courtly splendor, and have 
visited the place where it occurred, I have asked 
myself, with wonder, “ Could it have been here, 
in this mean and poor-looking place?” and have 
been led from an actual comparison of the scene 
with that described in the past, to conclude that 
in those earlier days men were satisfied with 
much less, and that the splendor of those times 
would be no splendor to ourselves. 

The great hall of Jacques Coeur, the wealth- 
iest merchant in France, now holding high office 
at the court, and, in fact, the royal treasurer — a 
hall celebrated throughout all Berri — was indeed 
a large and well-shaped apartment, but still very 
simple in all its decorations. It was, perhaps, 
more than forty feet in length, and four or five 
and twenty feet in width: was vaulted above 
with a semicircular arch, ceiled with long planks, 
finely jointed together, of some dark, unpolished 
wood. The same material lined the whole hall ; 
but on the walls the wmod was polished and pan- 
eled, and four pilasters, in the Italian fashion, or- 
namented each corner of the wall, and seemed, 
but only seemed, to support the roof. 

Many caudles were required to give light to 
that large dark room ; but it was very insuffi- 
ciently illuminated. What little light there was 
fell principally upon the figure of the young king, 
as, sealed at a small table in the midst, he leaned 
his head upon his hand in a somewhat melan- 
choly attitude, and bent his eyes down toward 
the floor. 

“Will she come?” he said to himself; “will 
she come ? And if she will not, how must I act ? 
This good merchant says she will ? but I doubt 
it — I doubt it much. Hers is a determined spir- 
it; and once she has chosen her part, she abides 
by it obstinately. Well, it is no use asking my- 
self if she will come, or thinking what I must do 
if she refuse. Kings were made to command 
men, I suppose, and women to command them ;” 
and a faint smile came upon his lips, at the con- 
ceit. 

While it still hung there, a door opened hard 
by — not the great door of the hall, but a smaller 
one on the right — and a sweet voice said, “ Your 
majesty sent for me.” 

“ Agnes !” said the king, rising and taking her 
hand, “ Agnes ! why have you left me so long ?” 

“ Because I have been ill and miserable,” she 
answered ; and the tears rose in her beautiful 
eyes. 

“ And I have been ill and miserable too,” said 
Charles, leading her to a seat close by his own. 


“ Do you not know,” he continued, in an earnest 
and sad voice, “ that, from time to time, a moody, 
evil spirit seems to take possession of me, mak- 
ing me sicken at all the toil and pomp of state, 
at all the splendor, and even all the gayety of a 
court? His visits are becoming more frequent 
and more long. There is no one can drive him 
from me but you, Agnes.” 

“ Can I drive him from you always ?” she ask- 
ed. “ Has he not resisted me lately, very lately, 
till I lost hope, lost courage, and was repelled, 
to take counsel with my own heart, and listen to 
all its bitter self-reproach. Charles, Charles ! oh, 
my king and lord ! there is nothing can console 
— nothing can comfort — under the weight of my 
own thoughts, but to believe and know that you 
are worthy of better love than mine — the love of 
your whole people. Take not that comfort from 
me. Let me, let me believe that passion, nor 
moodiness, nor any evil spirit will le^ you to do 
an act of injustice to any of your subjects.” 

“ Well, well,” said Charles, kissing her hand, 
“it shall be as you will, my Agnes. You shall 
decide De Brecy’s fate yourself, of however re- 
bellious a spirit he may be — however insolent 
his tone. I will forgive him for your sake. It 
shall be as you will.” 

“ Nay, not so,” answered Agnes, gently. “ I 
ask you not to forgive insolence or rebellion. All 
I beseech you is, to inquire unprejudiced, and 
judge without favor. De Brecy is somewhat 
bold, and free of speech. He always was so, 
even from his boyhood ; but he is faithful and 
true in all things. I saw him peril his life rather 
than give up a letter to the Duke of Burgundy. 
I saw him submit to the torture rather than be- 
tray to the Council the secrets of your uncle, the 
Duke of Orleans. It is his nature to speak fear- 
lessly, but it is his nature to speak tmly ; and 
all I ask of you is to judge of him as he is, un- 
tinged by the yellow counsels of Trimouille, or 
the black falsehoods of that woman of Vendome. 
I hear that some paper he has sent you has exci- 
ted your anger, and that you have ordered his 
arrest. Before you judge, investigate, my dear 
lord. Remember that he has many enemies — 
that he has offended Trimouille, who never for- 
gives ; and that the love of my bright little name- 
sake for him is an obstacle in the way of Jeanne 
of Vendome, than whom a more poisonous viper 
does not crawl upon the earth.” 

“I will investigate,” answered Charles. “I 
will judge unprejudiced ; and my better angel 
shall be by my side to see whether I keep my 
word with her.” 

“ Not alone, not alone,” said Agnes, “ or they 
will say, in their malice, that favor for me, not 
sense of justice, has swayed the king. Have your 
chancellor here. He is a noble man, and true 
of heart. Nay, let all who will be present, to see 
you act, as I know you will act, justly and nobly 
— sternly, if you will ; for I would not even have 
love pleading for love affect you in this matter. 
Oh, think only, my nobie Charles, of how you 
may have been deceived against this young gen- 
tleman, how Trimouille’s enmity may have read 
an evil gloss upon his actions, how Jeanne of 
Vendome and her false nephew may have dis- 
torted the truth. Take the whole course of his 
life to witness in his favor ; and then, if you as- 
soil him of any fault — then Agnes, perhaps, may 
plead for favor to him.” 

“ She shall not plead in vain,” said Charles, 
embracing her. “ Some time to-morrow, prob- 


144 


AGNES SOREL. 


ably, the sergeant will be back, and I will hear 
and judge his cause at once, for we are lingering 
in Bourges too long. There is, moreover,” he 
continued, holding her hand in his, and gazing 
into her eyes with a smile, “there is another 
cause for speedy decision. The king’s authority, 
till this is all concluded, suffers some contempt. 
A daring act has been committed against our 
state and dignity, and hints have reached us that 
the traitor is above our power. ’Tis policy, in 
such a case, not to investigate too closely, but to 
remove all cause of contest as soon as possible.” 

Agnes sank upon her knees, with a glowing 
cheek, and bent down her fair forehead on his 
hand, murmuring, “Forgive me — oh, forgive 
me !” 

Charles threw his arm round her fondly, say- 
ing, “ Thank thee, my Agnes — thank thee for 
letting me have something to forgive.” 

She was still at his feet, when some one knock- 
ed at the door, and, raising her gently, Charles 
said aloud, “ Come in.” 

“ May it please your majesty,” said a page, 
entering, “Monsieur De Brecy waits below to 
know your pleasure concerning him.” 

A slight flush passed over the king’s cheek. 
“ This is quick, indeed,” said Charles. “ Why 
does not the sergeant whom I sent present him- 
self?” 

“ There is no sergeant there, your majesty. 
Monsieur De Brecy, with a few attendants, came 
but a moment ago, and is in the vestibule below 
with Messire Jacques Coeur.” 

“Let him wait,” said Charles; “and, in the 
mean time, summon Monsieur Des Ursins hither. 
Wait; I will give you a list of names.” 

“ Now, Agnes,” continued the king, when he 
had dispatched the boy, “ I will act as you would 
have me. We must have other ladies here. Go 
call some, love — some who will best support 
you.” 

About an hour after, in that same hall, Charles 
was seated at^the table in the midst, with his 
bonnet on his head, and some papers before him. 
The queen was placed near, and some fifteen or 
sixteen ladies and gentlemen, members of the 
court, stood in a semicircle round. The door 
opened, and. ushered in by one of the attend- 
ants, Jean Charost, followed close by Jacques 
Coeur, advanced up the hall with a bold, free 
step. When within two paces of the table, he 
paused, and bowed his head to the king, but 
without speaking. 

“ Monsieur De Brecy,” said Charles, “ I sent 
one of the sergeants of our court to bring you 
hither.” 

“So I have heard, sire,” replied De Brecy; 

“ but, learning beforehand that your majesty re- 
quired my presence, I set out at once to place 
myself at your disposal.” 

“You have done well,” said the king; “and 
we would fain believe that there is no contempt 
of our authority, nor disloyalty toward our per- 
son, at the bottom of your heart.” 

^ “ I have proved my loyalty and my reverence, 
sire,” replied De Brecy, “ by shedding my blood 
for you in the field against your enemies, at all 
times, and on all occasions, and by lingering in 
inactivity for long months atBriare in obedience 
to your commands.” 

“ Well,” said the king, “ it is well. But there 
be special ciz'cumstances, when men’s own inter- 
ests or passions will lead them to forget the gen- 
eral line of duty, and cancel good services by ' 


great faults. Charges of this kind are made 
against you.” 

“ My lord, they are false,” replied De Brecy; 
“ and I will prove them so, either in your royal 
court, by evidence good and true, or in the lists 
against my accuser, my body against his, and God 
to judge between us.” 

He glanced, as he spoke, toward a slight young 
man standing beside La Trimouille ; and the 
king, mistaking his look, replied, with a light 
laugh, “ Our ministers are not challenged to the 
field for their actions, Monsieur De Brecy. La 
Trimouille is a flight above you.” 

“ I thought not of Monsieur La Trimouille, 
sire,” replied De Brecy. “ I know not that I 
have offended him ; and, moreover, I hold him to 
be the best minister your majesty ever had, be- 
cause the one who has made your authority the 
most respected. I spoke generally of any ac- 
cuser.” 

“ Well, then,” said the king, “ in the first 
place, tell me, with that truth and freedom of 
speech for which you have a somewhat rough 
reputation, have you, or have you not just cause 
to think that a young lady who has been brought 
up' under your charge from infancy, and lately at 
our court, is the daughter of our late uncle, the 
Duke of Orleans?” 

“ I have, sire,” answered De Brecy. 

“ Then how did you presume to claim the 
guardianship of her against our power?” said the 
king, sternly. “ As our first cousin, legitimate or 
illegitimate, she is our ward.” 

“ My answer is simple, sire,” replied De Bre- 
cy. “ I have never done what your majesty 
says ; and if I had, when last I stood before you, 

I should have done it in ignorance ; for it is but 
three days since I received from one Lomelini, 
abbot of Briare, then upon his death-bed, any 
certain information regarding her birth. These 
packets should have been delivered to me long 
before, but they were retained through malice. 

I now lay them before you, to judge of them as 
may seem meet.” 

“Look at them, Des Ursins,” said the king; 
and the chancellor took them up. 

“ I can prove, my lord the king,” said Juvenel 
de Royans, stepping forward, “ that when last in 
Berri, Monsieur De Brecy was quite uncertain 
whose child the young lady was ; for we had a 
long conversation on the subject when he gal- 
lantly threw himself into the citadel of this place, 
to aid us in defending it for your majesty.” 

“ Silence ! silence !” said the king ; and taking 
up a paper, he held it out toward De Brecy, say- 
ing, “ Did you sign that paper, sir?” 

“No, sire,” replied De Brecy; “I never saw 
it before.” 

“Then whose is it?” cried the king. 

“ Mine,” replied the voice of an old man, in 
somewhat antiquated garments, standing a step 
or two behind Agnes Sorel. “ I signed that pa- 
per, of right ;” and advancing with a feeble step, 
he placed himself opposite the king. 

“And who may you be, reverend sir?” de- 
manded Charles, gazing at him with much sur- 
prise. 

“ The man whose name is there written,” re- 
plied the stranger. “ William, count of St. Flo- 
rent; the only lawful guardian of the girl you 
■vv'rangle for. You took my property and gave it 
to another. I heeded not, because I have no 
such needs now. But when you sought to take 
away the guardianship of this poor girl from him 


AGNES SOREL. 


to whom I intrusted her, and to bestow her hand 
upon a knave, I came forward to declare and to 
maintain my rights. They have been dormant 
long ; but they are not extinct. Each year have , 
I seen her since she was an infant; each year 
have I performed some act of lordship in the fief 
of St. Florent ; and I claim my right in the King’s 
Court — my right to my estates — my right in | 
my—” He paused for an instant, and seemed j 
to hesitate; but then added, quickly, and in a 
tremulous voice, “in my child.” 

The king looked confounded, and turned to- 
ward the chancellor, who was at that moment 
speaking eagerly to Agnes Sorel, with the fell ! 
eyes of .Jeanne of Venddme fixed meaningly 
upon them both. 

“ Monsieur Des Ursins,” said the king, “ you 
hear what he says.” 

“ I do, sii-e,” answered the chancellor, coming 
forward. “You have made your appeal, sir,” 
he continued, addressing the old man, “ and per- 
haps, if you can prove your statements, his maj- 
esty may graciously admit your rights without 
the trouble of carrying your claim before the 
courts. You have to show, first, that you are re- 
ally the Count of St. Florent; secondly, that the 
young lady in question is legally to be looked 
upon as the daughter of that nobleman. Her 
birth, at present, is not at all established. None 
of these letters but one prove any thing, and that 
proves only a vague belief on the part of a prince 
long since dead.” 

The old man drew himself sternly up to his 
full height, which was very great, and said, “You 
ask me for bitter proofs, chancellor. Methinks 
you might know me yourself, for I first gave you 
a sword.” 

“ I can be no witness in ray own court,” said 
the chancellor; “and the cause, if it be tried, 
must come before me.” 

“ Stand forward, then, Jacques Cceur,” cried 
the other. “ Do you know your old friend ?” 

“ Right well,” auswei'ed Jacques Coeur, ad- 
vancing from behind De Brecy. “ This, please 
your majesty, is William, count of St. Florent. 

I have seen him at intervals of not more than 
two or three years ever since he disappeared 
from the court and army of France, and have re- 
ceived for him, and paid to him, the very small 
sum he has drawn from the revenues of St. Flo- 
rent. If my testimony is not enough, I can bring 
forward twenty persons to prove his identity.” 

There was a dead silence for several moments ; 
but then the chancellor said, addressing the king, 

“ This may be, perhaps, admitted, sire. I have 
no doubt of the count’s identity. But there is 
nothing to show any connection whatever be- 
tween him and this young lady, whom the Duke 
of Orleans, in this letter, seems to have claimed 
as his daughter.” 

At these words, a fierce, eager fire seemed 
lighted up in the old man’s eyes, and taking a 
step forward, he exclaimed, “Ay, such claim as 
a robber has to the gold of him whom he has 
murdered !” Then, suddenly stopping, he clasp- 
ed his hands together, let his eyes fall thought- 
fully, and murmured, “ Forgive me. Heaven ! 
Sire, I have forgot myself,” he said, in a milder 
tone. “ My right to the child is easy to prove. 

I was her mother’s husband. She was born in 
marriage. I myself gave her into the arms of 
this young man,” and he laid his hand upon De 
Brecy’s shoulder. “With him she has ever been 
till the time vou took her from him. Let him 
K 


145 

speak for himself. Did he not receive her from 
me V' 

“Most assuredly I did,” replied De Brecy; 
“ and never even dreamed for a moment, at the 
time, that any one had a claim to her but your- 
self.” 

“ Nor had they — nor have they,” replied St. 
Florent, sternly. 

“ But it is strange, good sir,” said Charles, 

, “ that you should trust your child to the guard- 
I ianship of another ; that other a mere youth, and, 
j from what I have heard, well-nigh a stranger to 
you.” 

“ There are wrongs. King of France, which 
will drive men mad,” said St. Florent, fixing his 
eyes full upon the king’s face. “ Mine were 
such wrongs, and I was so driven mad. But yet 
in this act, which you call strange, I was more 
sane than in aught else. This young man’s fa- 
ther I knew and loved, before he ruined himself 
for his king, and died for his country. Of the 
youth himself I had heard high and noble report 
from this good merchant here. I had seen him 
once, too, in the convent of the Celestins, and 
what I saw was good. I knew that I could trust 
her to none better, and I trusted her to him.” 

“ But can you prove that she is your wife’s 
daughter?” asked La Trimouille ; “ for these pa- 
pers in the hands of the chancellor seem to show, 
and Monsieur De Brecy himself admits there is 
cause to believe, that she is the child of the late 
Duke of Orleans, and consequently a ward of 
the king.” 

He spoke in a mild, sweet tone ; but his words 
seemed almost to drive St. Florent to madness. 
His whole face worked, his eyes flashed, and the 
veins in his temple swelled. “ Man, would you 
tear my heart out?” he exclaimed, in a fearful 
tone. “ Would you drag forth the dead from the 
grave to desecrate their memory?” and snatch- 
ing up the other packet which De Brecy had laid 
upon the table, he tore off the cover, exclaiming, 
“Ha! these ai'e trinkets. Poor, lost, unhappy 
girl!” and. laying his finger upon the cover, he 
looked sternly at La Trimouille, saying, “ Whose 
are these arms ? Mine ! Whose are these ini- 
tials? Hers — Marie de St. Florent!” 

As he spoke, he opened the case and gazed 
upon the diamonds. “ Oh, Marie, Marie,” he 
said, “ when I clasped these round thy neck, lit- 
tle (lid I think — But no more of that. My lord 
the king, what does your majesty say to my just 
claim? I gave my daughter’s guardianship to 
this young man; I now give him her hand. I 
ratify your gift of the lands and lordships of St. 
Floi-ent. What says your majesty?” 

“ In sooth, I know not what to say or think,” 
answered Charles. 

“ I think I see my way, sire,” said the chan- 
cellor; “ although the case is somewhat compli- 
cated. If Monsieur De St. Florent can prove 
that this young lady is the daughter of his wife, 
he is undoubtedly, by the law of France, her 
lawful guardian, and all opposition to his claim 
grounded on other facts is vain. So much for 
that view of the case. But even supposing he 
can not prove the fact, here is a letter from his 
highness the Duke of Orleans, whose handwrit- 
ing I well know, which, though somewhat in- 
formal, contains matter which clearly conveys 
the whole of his authority over the young lady, 
if he had any, to Monsieur De Brecy. In either 
case, then, your majesty can not err, nor violate 
any of your own edicts, or those of your prcde- 


146 


AGNES SOREL. 


cessors, by restoring the guardianship to him 
from whom it has been taken under a misappre- 
hension. Any other course, I think, would be 
dangerous, and form a very evil jjrecedent.” 

Trimouille bit his lip, and Jeanne de Vendome 
slowly nodded her head, with a bitter smile, to- 
ward Agnes Sorel. 

“So be it, then,” said the king, with a gra- 
cious look toward Jean Charost. “ Take her 
back, De Brecy, if you can find her, which we 
doubt not ; and if you bestow her hand on« any 
one else but yourself, he shall have our favor for 
your sake. If )"ou wed her yourself, we will 
dance at the wedding, seeing that you have sub- 
mitted with patience and obedience to a sen- 
tence which we sternly pronounced, and sternly 
executed against you, in order to teach all our 
court and subjects that not even those whom we 
most highly esteem, and who have served us 
best, will be permitted to oppose our expressed ! 
will, or show disobedience to our commands. ; 
Your sentence of exile from our court is I'ecalled, | 
and we shall expect, not only your attendance, 
but your service also ; for, wedded or un wedded, ! 
v/e can spare no good sword from the cause of * 
France.” 

He spoke gayly and gracefully, and then look- 
ing round with a smile, he said, “Is there no wise | 
and pitiful person who, in charity, can give us | 
some information of where our fair fugitive is?” ] 

“ In my castle of St. Florent,” said the old | 
count, who had now sunk down again into the j 
appearance of age and decrepitude; “and there | 
De Brecy will find her to-morrow. Let him I 
take her, and let him take her inheritance also ; 
fbi' I go back to my own living tomb, to work out 
the penance of deeds done in madness and de- 
spair.” 

“ Methinks, sire,” said Jean Charost, who had ' 
mai'ked some facts which created suspicion, “ it 
v/ere well that I should go to-night. St. Florent 
is very insufficiently guai’ded, and these are 
strange times.” 

“ Nay, nay, this is lovers’ haste,” said Charles. 

“ But, as you say, ihere may be danger of rash 
enterprises on the part of rivals, now that her j 
abode is known. We will therefore, to spare j 
all scandal, entreat some fair lady to undertake | 
the task of bringing her back to the court this 
very night, which is not yet far advanced. Who 
will undertake it? She shall have good escort, 
commanded by this gallant knight himself.” 

“ I am ready, sire,” said Jeanne de Vendome. 

“ Then, I beseech your majesty, let me go 
also,” exclaimed Agnes Sorel, eagerly. 

Charles looked from the one to the other, and 
replied, somewhat jestingly, “ Both go. A lit- 
ter shall be prepared at once ; and as a modera- 
tor between you — ladies not always well agree- 
ing when too closely confined — I will ask our 
good friend Messire Jacques Cceur to accompany 
you. Quick, ladies ! prepare. De Brecy, see for 
your horses ; and on your return you shall sup 
v/ith us, and we will forget all but what is pleas- 
ant in the dream that is past.” 


CHAPTER LIII. 

A LITTLE after ten o’clock at night, H party of 
some five-and-twenty persons, escorting one of ' 
the large horse-litters of the day, stopped in the j 
court-yard of the old Castle of St. Florent. One | 


I or two servants came fortli to meet them, and 
instantly recognized De Brecy’s right to admis- 
j sion. Lights were procured ; and the young no- 
I bleman himself, handing Agnes Sorel from the 
I litter, led her into the great hall, while Jacques 
; Cceur followed with Jeanne de Vendome. 

I “ My indignation at that woman’s duplicity,” 
|, whispered Agnes Sorel, as they advanced, “ has 
made me very thirsty. Let them bring me some 
! water, my friend.” 

j Jean Charost gave the order she desired to the 
servant who went before them with the lights, 

' and the whole party of four paused for an instant 
in the hall, Agnes Sorel bending her eyes upon 
I the ground, as if lost in thought. Suddenly, how- 
j ever, she raised her head, saying, “ Come, De 
I Brecy, I will not keep you from your love. 1 
will lead you to her. I know where she is to 
be found.” 

“ Ha!” said Jeanne de Vendome, with a very 
marked emphasis, as Jean Charost and his fair 
companion left the room. 

“ Will you not go with them, madam?” asked 
Jacques Cceur, who had no great love for the 
lady left behind. 

“ I think not,” repiied Jeanne de Vendome, 
in a quiet, easy tone. ■ Lovers’ meetings should 
have as few witnesses as possible and she and 
Jacques Cceur remained in the hall, the good 
merchant going to the window, and gazing out 
upon the night. 

A minute or two after, the servant returned 
w'ith a flagon of water from the castle w'ell, and 
a silver drinking-cup. These he set upon the 
table, and retired. Jeanne de Vendome gazed 
at them for a moment, and then said, aloud, “ 1 
am thirsty too.” 

Quietly approaching the table, she placed her- 
self in such a position as to stand between the 
flagon and Jacques Cceur, poured herself out 
some water, drank, set down the cup again, and 
after remaining a short time in that position, 
turned to the wdndow, and took lier place beside 
the merchant. 

In the mean time, Jean Charost, with a light 
in his hand, accompanied Agnes Sorel up the 
stairs, and through a long passage at the top. 

“ You seem to know the castle even better 
than I do,” he said, as she gqided him on. 

“ I have been this road in secret once before,” 
she answered, gayly. “ Mine is a happier errand 
now, De Brecy. But w^e must tlu-ead out the 
labyrinth. I have hid your little gem where best 
it might lie concealed.” 

A few moments more, however, brought theni 
to a door which Agnes Sorel opened, and there, 
with an elderly waiting-maid of Madame De 
Brecy’s, stood his own Agnes, gazing with anx- 
ious terror toward the door. She was somewhat 
pale, somewhat thinner than she had been, and 
the noise of horses’ feet in the court below had 
made her heart beat fearfully. The moment she 
saw De Brecy, however, she sprang forward and 
cast hersell into his arms. He pressed her close- 
ly to his heart; but all he could say was, “ My 
Agnes — my own Agnes — all is well, and you are 
mine.” 

Agnes Soi'el put a fair hand upon the arm of 
each. “ May you love ever as you love now,” 
she said, “ and may God bless you in your love. 
Oh, De Brecy, just a year ago you gave me tlie 
most painful moment I have ever felt. When 1 
told you I would guard and protect her, there 
came such a look — oh, such a look into your lace 


V 


AGNES 

— u look of doubt aud fear, more reproachful, 
more monitory, more condemnatory than any 
thing but my own heart has ever spoken. I give 
her back to you now, pure, and bright, and true 
as you left her with me, with the bloom and 
brightness of her mind as fresh and unsoiled as 
ever. Love her, and be beloved, and may God 
bless you ever.” 

De Brecy took her hand and kissed it. “ For 
how much have I to thank you,” he answered; 
“for all — for every thing; for I am certain that 
but for your influence this happy meeting would 
have never been.” 

“ It might not,” answered Agnes, with a cheek 
glowing with many emotions. “ But I call Heav- 
en to witness, De Brecy, the influence I unright- 
ly possess has never been, and never shall be ex- 
ercised but to do justice, to prompt aright, and 
to lead to honor. Now let us go. Agnes, you 
must back with us to the court as the bride of 
him you love. Make no long preparation nor 
delay. You will find us waiting for you in the 
hall. Gome, De Brecy, come. More lovers’ 
words another time.” 

When they reached the hall, Agnes advanced 
at once to the table, filled the cup, and drank ; 
then, turning gayly to Jacques Coeur, she said, 
“ We have not been long, my friend. I went on 
purpose to cut caresses shoi’t. Our fair compan- 
ion will be here anon. How brightly the stars 
are shining. Methinks it would be very pleas- 
ant if one could wing one’s w'ay there up aloft, 
aud look into the brilliant eyes of heaven.” 


SOREL. 147 

A minute or two after, she turned somewhat 
pale, and seated herself in a large arm-chair 
which stood near. She said nothing ; but an ex- 
pression of pain passed across her countenance. 
Shortly after, De Brecy’s Agnes entered, pre- 
pared to go ; and Agnes Sorel rose, supporting 
herself by the arm of the chair, and saying, “ Let 
us be quick ; I feel far from well.” 

She was soon placed in the litter, and tliey 
went on quickly toward Bourges ; but once or 
twice, during the short journey, Jacques Coeur 
put forth his head, urging the drivers of the lit- 
ter to make more haste. When they entered 
the court-yard of his house, and the litter stopped 
before the great door, the good merchant sprang 
out at once, saying, “ Help me to carry her in, 
Jean. She is very ill.” 

They lifted her out in their arms, and bore her 
into the house, pale and writhing. Confusion 
and dismay spread through the court. Physi- 
cians were called, and gave some relief. She 
became somewhat better — well enough to travel 
to a distant castle ; but, ere six weeks were over, 
the kind, the beautiful, the frail was in her grave, 
aud none knew how she died. 

From that moment a fear of poison seized upon 
the mind of Charles the Seventh, and affected 
the happiness of all his after days. 

The king did not keep his promise of being 
present at the marriage of De Brecy and Agnes 
de St. Florent, and their own joy was baptized 
in sorrow. 


THE END 






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